


Help Me (Tear down My Reason)

by wehangout



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Angst, Cop!AU, M/M, Minor Character Death, Sexual Content, Violence, hints at possible past prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-15
Updated: 2015-05-31
Packaged: 2018-03-30 12:50:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 34,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3937420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wehangout/pseuds/wehangout
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s leaving the chair, on his knees in front of you, big eyes not once leaving yours. “Tell me you believe me, Mick. I need to know I’ve got you on my side.”</p><p>You swallow hard and lick your lips. Ian’s gaze dips down for that split second, and you know you’re in so much fucking trouble. You reach forward, push his hair out of his eyes, and your heart fucking races at being allowed to touch him.</p><p>“Yeah. I believe you.”</p><p>He lets out a long sigh, grabs your hand, and presses his face into it. “Thank fuck.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. You let Me Complicate You

**Author's Note:**

> All the thanks to [Ella](http://hubrisandwax.tumblr.com/) for helping me so effing much with this. She deserves all of your love.

Sometimes you just can’t help yourself. You figure it’s due to the eighteen years locked in that very secure closet, keeping all and any thoughts of other dudes to yourself, but maybe you just have a filthy mind. Whatever the reason, the guy next to you has incredibly long fingers, and you quickly lick at your teeth and think about them wrapped around your hard cock.

Key word: _briefly._

And not just because when the guy starts talking again he’s talking about some fucking insurance job he’s hoping to get - he’s actually got an Australian accent that kills, and could probably make anything sound sexy - but because you can’t think about much of _anything_ for more than a few minutes on Tuesday and Thursday nights.

On Tuesday and Thursday nights your mind is a blur of strong thighs, hoarse whispers, and enough skin to lose yourself in. Of the heavy dance music that seeps into your pores, the enticing scent of sweat, and eyes that pull you down deep whenever they meet your own.

You take another look around the club while Australia talks about trauma and fires and other stupid bullshit you don’t need or want to listen to, and you spot _him_ immediately - and he is just him because despite everything you do know about him, you don’t know his name. He’s the real reason you’re here, the only guy who can really hold your attention, and you still only know him as Rick or Curtis or Dean.

Which you’re okay with. It keeps this _thing_ between the two of you exactly where you need it to be.

And sure, being the sole focus of Talks-Insurance-But-Looks-Like-Point-Break is fucking awesome, but it’s not why you’re here.

You watch him. You always watch him. Even when Down Under first started flirting with you your gaze kept flitting to the platform behind him, unable to look away from the taut muscles and red hair for too long, because _fuck._ And it’s not surprising. He’s the reason you come here twice a week - sometimes more if work is particularly bad.

“So, uh, you come here often?” Even the worst line in the universe sounds good coming from this guy, but you just shrug and check your watch.

“Not really.”

You’ve only been there twenty minutes, and for all you know, might have another forty minutes to wait. He’s usually off stage by now, doing private dances - doing your private dance - but not tonight. You don’t know if his shift has changed, or if he’s just running late, but you really fucking dislike it.

The dancers here don’t exactly have a strict schedule they go by; they dance a certain number of songs, then they do a certain number of private dances. If you’re waiting on one dancer in particular, then you generally just have to turn up and wait until he’s free. And you’re always waiting on one dancer in particular.

You scowl at the simple fact that he’s not there, near you, close enough for you to touch but never fucking touching because you’re just not allowed. When you look back up, past the guy who wants to insure your car, _he_ catches your eye, sees your scowl, somehow fucking knows exactly what you’re thinking.

A small smirk plays at his lips. He stares at you and mouths _one more song_ , and then he winks. He fucking winks, and it’s enough to make you grin.

So you wait out the song and you watch him dance, until finally - _finally_ \- he jumps down from the platform and makes his way towards you. You suck in a few deep breaths as you watch him walk - while Fair Dinkum next to you doesn’t seem to get the not-interested message, and just keeps talking - and keep your eyes attached to his the whole time.

He smiles. “Hey, man, you ready?”

You nod. Australia chokes out some kind of protest, but you ignore him and follow your dancer toward the back of the club and the private booths, staring at his ass the whole time. He catches you doing so when he turns to smile at you again, but his smile just turns back into that smirk.

He holds the curtain open for you. “After you.”

You roll your eyes. “Only so you can check out my ass.”

He doesn’t deny it, so you go in and take the usual seat at the couch; you push at your already rolled up sleeves, wriggle around a little to get more comfortable, undo one more button at your collar - all your usual tics, because it doesn’t matter how often this happens, you always begin nervous until …

“How’s it going, man?”

Until he starts talking. You slouch a little, feeling your heart rate slow at the sound of his voice speaking directly to you, to be heard only by you.

“Good.”

“And how’s your sister doing? Still in Ohio?”

“Yeah, she’s good. How’s your brother now?”

He grins at you over his shoulder as he fiddles with the iPod on dock next to him. “Out of juvie, finally, and he better fucking stay that way.”

“I’m sure he will be if he’s got you and the rest of your fucking clan on his back.” Because you don’t know his name, but you know he has a huge family, you know his work schedule, you know his favourite song to dance to is some Rihanna remix.

“Yeah, he’s not gonna have a choice.” He turns to face you. “How was work today?”

You lift your eyebrows and say nothing.

“Fine, fine,” he concedes, “but one day I’m gonna get something real out of you. Something meaningful about _you.”_

“I wouldn’t count on it.”

And it’s not that you don’t want to give him more, it’s not that you see him as a dancer and only a dancer, someone you’re not supposed to make conversation with … it’s just, once you start giving more, you’re going to want more. Your pathetic fondness for this dancer in particular is already too much; anything more and your entirely physical crush will become far more.

He knows a few little things, insignificant things, like the cologne you wear, or that your sister left town, but nothing important. You need it to stay that way.

He shrugs and seems to find the song he’s looking for on his iPod. He turns the volume up, double checks the curtain is securely closed, then presses play.

Your entire body goes tense as Nine Inch Nails comes through the speakers and he begins moving.

“Really?” you ask, pushing through the squeak in your voice. “Kind of an intense song, don’t you think?”

He sways his hips from side to side, slowly moving closer to you, and smirks. “Fits my mood.”

“Well. Fuck.”

He grins, and you watch avidly as he begins to touch himself, eyes closed, fingers caressing his neck before moving lower, lower, over his collarbone, down his chest - never once straying to his nipples - and finally smoothing his large hands over his stomach, all the while moving gently to the music.

And, shit, it’s enough to get you hard, but you say nothing and just continue to watch - you watch one hand slide back up his chest while the other toys with the band of his little gold shorts. Your mouth goes dry when the thumb on his chest glances over a hard nipple and his jaw drops slightly.

“Fuck.”

He opens his eyes, and they’re dark and hooded and exactly what you want to see on the person fucking you, but this guy won’t fuck you. Not that you’ve asked - this is a purely professional relationship, after all. Dancer and customer. Nothing else.

But when he moves to stand right in front of you, leans over so his hands are on the back of the couch behind you and his really fucking impressive bulge is right in your face, you want to break every fucking rule this place has and touch. Because he’s right there, right in front of you, and you know you’re not imagining the reaction said bulge is having to being in such close proximity to your mouth, and fuck.

You shove your hands into your jeans pockets. “Dude, you’re killing me here.”

He relents, but only long enough to slide a knee onto either side of your hips. He doesn’t sit right down on your lap, but he presses his chest right up against your own and moves his hips so slowly against you that all your can feel is the fabric of his barely-there shorts gently brushing the denim of your jeans.

“Christ, you’re pulling out all the stops tonight, huh?” you say, trying not to inhale the skin of his neck.

Because his eyes … his eyes don’t leave yours, and a dance from him has never been like this before. It’s always been, what you assume to be, the same dance he gives everyone else - a bit of rubbing, a bit of touching, a bit of hard grinding to the generic dance music the club plays - but this … this is eye fucking at its best, this is thick air between the two of you, this is the sexiest fucking thing you’ve ever experienced in your life. This is your dancer staring intently at you, barely moving against you while lyrics about penetrating and fucking like animals play loudly.

“Yep.”

“Any reason in particular?”

His hips go from moving back and forward against you to sliding side to side, and you suck in a breath through your teeth. He smirks at you, presses down just that little bit more, and leans into nose at your cheek.

“You’re a good customer,” he breathes, “probably my best. Definitely my most regular.”

You don’t doubt him - you’ve been coming to him twice a week for the last three months. He knows when to expect you.

“Yeah, and?”

He lowers himself, and there’s no fucking way he doesn’t feel your fully hard cock beneath his ass. You will yourself to not give a shit - it’s not like this is the first time he’s got you this fucking aroused, and you know he’s ended up hard once or twice with you - but it’s still fucking ridiculous just how hot this guy gets you.

“And I wanna pay you back somehow.”

You clench your hands into fists before releasing them, digging your nails into your thighs. “What? By making me come in my pants like a fucking teenager?”

He grinds against you, long and hard, and your head falls back against the couch as you pant. He doesn’t stop with the movements.

“I was actually just hoping to get you worked up enough that you’d finally tell me your name, but making you come would be one hell of a bonus.”

You look at him, wondering how he can be so fucking calm while you’re sporting the hardest boner of your life, sweating like you’ve just fucked for three hours straight, and can barely breathe properly because of him.

“Really? That’s what this is about?”

“Give me your name by the end of this song and I’ll let you come,” he says, lips brushing your neck as he does, and a shudder runs through your entire body.

“You - you’ve never -”

“I know. I’m not supposed to …” He circles his ass on your cock. “But you’re not just any customer, are you?”

“Shit, man.” You pull your hand from your pockets and sit on them heavily, when all you want to do is run your fingers all over the skin in front of you. “I … fuck. I _can’t.”_ And you probably could, but you won’t. You won’t risk it, not with your job finally heading in the direction you want it to, not when you think about this guy too fucking often as it is.

He pulls away from your neck to look at you, pushing his ass against your dick just that little bit harder. It takes everything you have not to thrust up against him. “C’mon, you gotta give me something.”

“Is - is this why you picked a six minute song? To get this out of me?”

“Well, to get _something_ out of you.”

“Jesus.”

He begins to move more fluidly, rolling his hips in time to the music, and he wraps his hands around your neck, breathing heavily into your skin.

“Anything,” he mutters. “A name, a job, a family pet. I just want something. I want to know something about you.”

You groan. “Fuck. Cop. I’m a fucking cop.”

He stops, and you want to fucking cry. “Cop, huh?”

You look at him with pleading eyes. “Unless you’re specifically requesting extra money for extra services, then I don’t see anything illegal going on here.”

“Oh, please, I stopped doing that years ago.”

Your eyes widen at the statement. “That’s fucking honest.”

He smirks. “Lying to a cop doesn’t seem like good karma, you know?” He begins to move again, just as the song begins to wind down, and he presses right into you - hot chest against yours, lips at your ear, ass rubbing on your dick, and fuck.

“C’mon, man,” he murmurs, and you can _feel_ his lips on your skin. “I dance for a lot of guys, but you’re the only one I jack off to when I get home at night - tell me your name.”

“Oh - oh, fuck, don’t stop -”

“Close?” he asks, and his tongue slips out to lick at the shell of your ear.

You nod weakly and wriggle beneath him, attempting to get more friction.

The songs ends.

He stands. Smiles. “Good talk.”

“Good - good _talk?”_

“Mmhm.” He turns his back to you, turns off the music. “I’ll see you again on Thursday, right?”

You’re too dazed, too fucked without having been fucked to reply, so you stare at him dumbly, wondering what the fuck just happened. He faces you, looking so fucking calm and nonplussed, despite the hard-on tenting his shorts.

“Thursday, right?”

You nod. Pulling it together - ignoring the painful ache in your jeans - you grab out his money and throw it at him. He grins, and when he reaches down to pick up the bills, he rubs a soothing hand up and down your thigh.

“Maybe next time you’ll give me your name.”

You watch him leave, unsure if you should curse him out or just let it go.

You let it go. You leave the private booth only seconds after him - not wanting to be caught in there alone in the condition you’re in - and leave the club immediately. You don’t look around for him on your way out, but only because you don’t want to give him the satisfaction. You want to look for him, though. Fuck, you want to see his face just one more time.

Apparently you _really_ can’t help yourself. Once in your car, you lock the doors, tug open your zipper, and grab your cock. Your dry hand is nothing compared to the feeling of _him_ in your lap, his words whispered in your ear, the image of him touching himself that you’ve conjured up, but it only takes two, three, four quick strokes and you’re coming all over yourself.

It’s stupid, and it doesn’t give you nearly as much relief as you had hoped, but it steadies your shaking hands, your rushed breaths, and the ache between your legs.

You pinch at the bridge of your nose with your clean hand and let out a self-deprecating chuckle. You’re way too fucked up over some guy whose name you don’t even know, who seems to really want to know your name. Reaching for the tissues you keep in the glove compartment, you slowly clean up before driving home. You’ve got a pile of paperwork waiting for you.

\----------

You’re woken suddenly and painfully by your phone shrilly ringing right next to your ear. You sit up quickly, grunting at the kinks in your neck and back, the piece of paper that sticks to your cheek, and the drool holding it in place. You yank it off, wipe your face clean, and curse yourself for once again falling asleep at the table.

“Fuck,” you groan and reach blindly for your phone. You answer without checking the caller ID, already know it’s work because no one else would bother to call while it’s still dark out. “Yeah?”

“Milkovich.” Detective Kavel’s voice has you sitting up straight and alert immediately. “You still hoping to get bumped up to detective?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Then get your ass downstairs. I’ll be there in ten.”

You showered when you got home from the club, but you wish to hell you had time for another one, just a quick rinse to wake you the fuck up before Kavel arrives and takes you to whatever fucking mess she’s got for you today. Unfortunately, Angela’s _I’ll be there in ten_ means she’s only a few minutes away, and if you’ve learned one thing while working with Angela Kavel it’s that if you’re not ready to go when she is, then she’ll leave without you.

You learned that the hard way five weeks ago, despite still have a little over twenty minutes before your shift started. Since then, you make sure you can be ready to go at anytime, so you grab the essentials and leave your apartment.

Her town car pulls up just as you exit your crappy apartment building, and you jump in next to her as soon as she slows down enough for you to do so. Then she pulls away, skilfully speeding through the deserted streets and handing you a cup of hot coffee.

You grin happily; she might not give you time to get ready, but she always supplies good coffee

“You look like ass,” she says, slowing down at a red light only long enough to make sure the roads are clear before continuing.

“And you look as lovely as ever,” you reply, rolling your eyes. She does look lovely, though, even at - you glance at the clock on the dash - 3:47 in the morning.

“You fall asleep while working again?”

“Those reports ain’t gonna do themselves.”

“Neither is your education, Milkovich,” she says, side-eyeing you. “You gotta keep on top of that, too.”

You say nothing but only because you know she’s right; if you want to make detective, then you need to be able to stay on top of your police work, your night classes, and whatever cases she lets you tag along to. You’re good at your job, but you’re still young. You need all the experience and schooling you can get.

Even still, you push the topic of school aside.

“So, what we got this morning?”

“Triple homicide.”

“Seriously?”

She speeds up, changes gear as she hits the highway, and nods. “Yep. Hope you got your big-boy panties on, kid, because from what I hear, you haven’t seen anything like this before.”

“Shit.” You grin. Three people are dead, but you grin and bounce a little in your seat because this isn’t a random lead on a case or a stakeout or even a fucking drug bust. This is the reason you want to be a detective. “Fucking finally.”

“Yeah, well, remember you’re here on a trial basis, and on my good word. One fuck up, and you’re out. I’m not having you screw with my reputation.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll be good, promise.”

She eyes you but doesn’t say anything. She knows how badly you want this, how you’ll do anything to get it and nothing to fuck it up.

“You noticed where we’re heading?” she finally asks.

You look out the window, but it’s still too dark to see much. You know enough to know where you’re going, though.

“North.”

“Right.”

“Triple homicide on the North side?”

“Rich people have issues, too, you know?” she says, defending her roots in that half-assed way she always does. “Then again, who the fuck knows? Might be a robbery gone wrong. Won’t know until we get there.”

“What do we know?”

She smiles. She likes when you ask questions. “Not a lot. O’Leary called it in only a few minutes before I called you, so I only know what you know.”

“Three people dead and a killer on the loose.”

“Pretty much.” She leaves the highway and gives you that steady look you’ve come to hate. “You know, if it gets too much -”

“Fuck off.”

“I’m just saying, it could be pretty bad.”

“People have been killed - of course it’s bad.”

“Some are worse than others,” she says, voice soft and pitying even as she speeds down the shiny North side neighbourhood and past the towering houses you’ll only ever see the inside of on cases like this.

You bite your tongue. Literally. If she wasn’t taking such a huge chance on you, taking such a huge chance by letting you tag along with her, you would tell her exactly where she could shove that pity.

Instead you shrug. “Whatever. We nearly there?”

She squints at her GPS and leans closer to the window. “You see what that street sign says?”

“Montgomery.”

“Should be next on the left.”

It’s the next on the left, and if the GPS didn’t tell you, the crowd of people hanging around the two flashing police cars would have. You climb out when Angela parks the car and dutifully follow her across the street, pushing past the noisy neighbours like they’re not even there. You stand right behind her when she stops at the front door and shows the officer her credentials, not even complaining when she gives her token _he’s with me_.

When it comes to this woman, you’ll follow her around like a lovesick puppy if that’s what it takes.

She pauses before heading inside and hands you a pair of rubber gloves and slippers for your shoes. “If you’re going to puke, make sure you do it outside.”

“I’m not gonna fuckin’ puke.”

“Whatever you say, champ.”

The crime scene is the second worst thing you’ve seen in your life. Blood. It’s nothing but blood - blood splattering the walls, blood filling your nostrils, blood squelching beneath your shoes. It’s everywhere, and your stomach churns immediately. You fight it back and raise an arm to your nose. You won’t puke. You will not puke.

You see the first victim as soon as you enter the house. He’s a young guy, can’t be any older than sixteen, and you hate the fact that his body is lying in the middle of the hallway, almost like it doesn’t even matter. He’s covered in blood, lying in blood, surrounded by blood.

Angela walks into the middle of the living room, where the forensics photographer is already clicking away, and you don’t know how either of them do it - how she goes to him in her expensive slipper-covered heels and asks what he’s got so far, how he removes his masks and tells her what he thinks went down. You don’t understand how they can both be so fucking calm when there’s three butchered bodies on the floor in front of them.

You can’t stop staring at the bodies. And that’s all they are now - bodies. It’s not the death of it that is fucking with your mind, though, it’s the blood, because there’s so much fucking blood, and you haven’t seen this much blood since -

“Milkovich.” Angela snaps your name in that professional way she never uses when it’s just the two of you in her car, and you quickly look up at her. She narrows her eyes at you. “You still with us, kid?”

You scowl at the nickname, but you’re too grateful for it to say anything. Angela patronising you is exactly what you need to keep it together, and she fucking knows it. You move to stand next to her, right above the bodies, and only then notice Officer O’Leary has joined the group.

“Mind telling me that again, O‘Leary,” she asks the cop who had called it in, the first cop on the scene, the guy who got you into the police academy, “so the kid here can catch up?”

O’Leary gives you that same soft look Angela had, but begins talking anyway. “We’ve got Clayton and Lucy Gallagher right here, and their son Jacob in the hallways. All three were DOA.”

Angela looks at you, waiting.

“Any witnesses?” you ask.

O’Leary sighs. “Just the lady who called it in, saying she saw someone running from the house, covered in blood.”

“Who’s the witness?”

“A Mrs. Henderson. Marcus is talking to her now, but a lot of the neighbours seem to have a lot to say, and we’re honestly not sure if any of them actually know anything.”

Angela nods. “Crime always brings out the gossips. O’Leary, I want this Henderson separated from the rest.”

“Already done.” He jerks a thumb behind him. “She’s shut in the family room with Marcus.”

“Any sign of forced entry?” you ask.

“None.”

“Anything taken?”

“We think so. The purse in the kitchen has been emptied of cash and cards, and both wedding rings are missing.”

You nod, thinking things through. “And I guess there’s multiple pairs of footprints here - including ours - that will need to be tested, but … how many different bloody prints were there when you arrived?”

O’Leary smiles, and you both love and hate how proud he looks. “Two.”

“Two?” you and Angela both ask at the same time, then turn to face each other.

“Two killers?” you ask.

“Possibly. Likely. With no forced entry, one person would have had a hell of a time doing this without getting a fight in return.”

You nod. “Yeah, okay, but why? Did they come just for the cash and jewellery? Or did they intend to hurt these people? Robbery gone wrong, like you said?

She smiles. “That’s what we’ve got to figure out, kid.”

You nod again and turn away because she and O’Leary are too fucking much together when they look all impressed with you. You know they worked together to get you where you are right now, but you don’t need their proud-parent smiles right now, thanks.

You look around the room again, but very quickly wish you had more questions, more information to get, because everything about this crime scene is messing with your head. And it shouldn’t. You’ve seen your fair share of crime scenes before, but something about this one -

“Milkovich.” Again, Angela pulls you out of the thoughts that threaten to consume you. “Take a look through the house, see if anything stands out.”

You nod and do as she says. It’s a simple job, the kind of job you would be given if you had been on duty when the call was placed rather than turned up with Angela and her badge, but you take it. You don’t know if she’s giving it to you because she senses you’re uncomfortable, or because she genuinely wants your eyes searching the house.

You don’t like to say that you’re better at your job than O’Leary and Marcus Jeffries, but you’re better at your job than O’Leary and Jefferies. You’re better, you’re more determined, more focused, more driven. They’re good cops, and you’ve looked up to O’Leary for a long time, but you want more than what they seem to. They’re both happy doing their patrols until the day they retire, but you’re going to go further than that.

Angela seems to think it’s because you’re Southside, that you have some need to prove yourself or something. O’Leary thinks it’s because of the first time he met you. You think they both might be a little bit right.

The kitchen is clean except for the footsteps that seem to dance throughout the house. Everything looks to be exactly where it should be in a nice place like this, including the purse O’Leary mentioned. You circle the counter, seeking out those spots that Angela says even cops forget to check. You had flipped her off the first time she made that comment, but damn her if she wasn’t right.

There’s a tiny puddle of something on the tiled floor. You crouch down to get a closer look, but that’s it. You have a fair idea of what it is, going by colour alone, and you’re not fucking stupid enough to touch it, with or without rubber gloves.

You stand and call to the forensics lady taking shots of the footprints. “Hey, did you guys see this?”

She hurries over, looking excited, and when you point at the puddle, she breathes out a curse. “Oh, shit. Someone couldn’t keep it down.”

“So it is vomit?”

“Sure looks like it.”

“Enough to get some DNA off of?”

She grins at you, fucking ecstatic. “Fucking bet on it. Nice work, Detective.”

You’re only half tempted to tell her you’re just a cop, but you’re in street clothes, and if she wants to mistake you for a detective, then that’s her issue. You grin and leave the kitchen, that awesome feeling of getting something right running through you.

It helps. The moment you walked inside this house you felt off, and you know it’s the blood - the sight of it, the smell of it, the sheer volume of it. You’ve got a stomach made of lead, and you’ve lost count of how many autopsies you’ve sat in on, but this much blood in this context makes your own run cold.

You bypass the poor kid in the hallway, head up the stairs, and push Mandy and Iggy from your mind. This isn’t the time. Shit, there’s never a good time, but you forcefully promise yourself to call Mandy later that day. Just to make sure she’s okay.

There are less footprints upstairs. Two sets, with your own slowly adding to them, and you follow them both room to room, finding nothing. Almost literally. Bare walls, barely lived-in bedrooms, no photographs, nothing. In fact, it’s almost eerie, how calm and clean everything is upstairs. Other than the carpet, there’s no blood, no bodies, nothing. Even the stink of blood is lesser up here, and a part of you wants to stick around just to avoid going back downstairs.

There are six bedrooms upstairs alone, and it doesn’t hit you until you’re leaving the last one that something doesn’t add up. It feels so obvious, too, and it’s almost there, right in front of you, something you’re stupid not to have realised sooner, but you just can’t get there. You close your eyes and count to five, the way Angela tells you to when something feels off, then open your eyes and turn around.

You’re standing in a little girl’s room.

Your heart begins to thud really fucking loudly as you look around the room, and the rushing sound in your ears makes you a little dizzy. You know what you need to do, what you’re supposed to do, but you can’t bring yourself to do it. You can’t bring yourself to leave this room, this little girl’s room.

You close your eyes again.

_One. Two. Three. Four. Five._

Your heart calms. Silence follows. You wait and wait, barely moving, hoping like fuck you’re not fucking up something really fucking huge by not organising a search party -

A shuffle. Just the slightest noise coming from the closet, and you close your eyes again, let out a breath you didn’t realise you were holding.

You step forward, grabbing your gun out of its holster as you go, just in case. Four steps to the door, more silence, more unbearable silence and you don’t know how you will live with yourself if you’re wrong about this, if your gut is wrong, but your gut hasn’t been wrong in years, not since the day you decided to become a cop.

“Fuck it,” you whisper, gun at the ready. You pull open the closet door.

Shoe boxes line the top shelf, and below that is a row of delicate dresses, all hung neatly and in order of colour, with a fluffy purple dressing gown and what looks like a pirate-princess costume bracketing them. On the floor are countless pairs of shoes, and even more soft toys. You put your gun away, crouch down, and meet a pair of bright brown eyes hidden behind the toys.

“Hey.” You say it quietly, but your voice sounds loud in the silence. “You okay?”

The girl says nothing, but she blinks, and at least she’s fucking moving.

“My name’s Mickey …” You fight the automatic scowl at your following words. “You know, like the mouse?”

Nothing. You wipe your sweaty palms on your jeans and continue. “You can come out if you want to. I’m a policeman, and there are more policemen and ladies downstairs. You’re safe now.”

Not even a blink this time, and for a second all you can think about is Michael Myers, and you hope like fuck this isn’t some _Halloween_ bullshit.

You bite your lip and take a quick look around the room, hoping for some kind of hint, some kind of something to help you out here, and _duh._ You take your gun back out and slide it across the room, watching the little girl the whole time, and then grab your phone.

“No weapon, now, see? I promise I’m not here to hurt you.” You pull up the YouTube app on your phone and do a quick search. Music begins, and as a human being you’re damn sick of this song, but as a cop, you know what _Disney_ can do for traumatised kids. “You wanna watch this with me? We can go downstairs, see the other police officers and, shit, I dunno, maybe have some hot chocolate?”

Nothing. You sigh and pause the video. Seriously, what little girl doesn’t like _Frozen?_ You try again.

“Okay, not this one, huh? What about, uh, _Snow White_? _The Little Mermaid_? Um, fuck … _Cinderella?”_ You run a hand over your face, running out of princesses. “Shit, I don’t know. That Dora kid? _Sesame Street_? _Sleeping Beauty_? Jesus … Rapunzel? _Beauty and the Beast_?” She doesn’t say anything, but she sits up a little straighter at that, and you grin. “Yeah? _Beauty and the Beast_? With the tea cup and shit?”

Still no answer, but you quickly type _Be Our Guest_ into the search bar. As soon as Lumiere begins talking, the little girl leans forward slightly, eyes focused intently on your phone. You nod and move slowly.

“I’m going to sit with my phone right here, okay?” you tell her, and shuffle a couple of feet away from the closet. “And when you feel comfortable, or when you just want to see more of the movie, you can come out.”

She eyes you suspiciously, but her head tilts to the side, as though she’s considering your offer. Phone in front of you, you cross your legs and wait, only now realising this makes getting hold of Angela kind of difficult. And you have to get hold of her - you’ve found a survivor, a likely witness, and a child, all wrapped into one. This is a huge deal.

You almost feel like you’re fucking up the investigation with what you’re doing here, by sitting with the girl and watching cartoons instead of doing your actual job, but you can’t bring yourself to care too much. Sitting there watching cartoons feels more important than getting hold of Angela or doing another search of the house.

You guess that you get through half the movie’s soundtrack before Angela comes looking for you. The little girl in front of you is on her knees, still surrounded by teddy bears, but with her head peeking out of the closet doorway. When Angela calls your name from the bottom of the steps, she quickly recedes back into the closet.

You grab your phone and climb to your knees. “Hey, it’s okay. That’s just my boss, and she’s a real nice lady, okay? Her name’s Angela, and she’s here to keep you safe. Just like me.”

The girl stares at you, eyes wider and more fearful than when you first found her. Angela’s shoes make soft thuds on the thick carpet as she comes up the stairs.

You don’t know if it’s the situation, the training, the knowledge that this kid’s family is lying dead downstairs that keep you patient, but you don’t think it really matters, either. The girl can’t be older than five, and you know she must have been terrified, so you’ll do whatever the fuck you have to do.

“Milkovich, you up here?”

You give the girl your best reassuring smile and hand her your phone. She stares at the phone, then back at you. You nod, assuming she knows how to use it - because which kid fucking doesn’t these days - and she cautiously reaches out. Once her small fingers grab it, you speak to her very softly before letting it go.

“I’m going to tell my boss to come in here now, okay? And we’re going to get you somewhere safe.”

She just looks at you, and your heart kind of fucking hurts a lot, but you let go of the phone and sit back.

“I’m in here,” you call to Angela. “Just … come in quietly.”

Her footsteps stop, and her voice is tense when she asks, “Are you hurt?”

The little girl’s eyes don’t leave yours.

“I’m not hurt.”

“Are you alone?”

“No. I have a little girl keeping me company.”

Angela steps into the doorway, tucking her gun into her holster, relief written all over her face. “You found the girl?”

“You knew about her?”

“Just found out.” She eyes the closet with arched eyebrows, and you nod. “She hurt?”

“I don’t think so.” You look back at the girl, and she’s still staring at you, so you speak to her instead. “Just a little shaken up, right, kid?”

Angela slowly steps forward and crouches next to you when she reaches the closet.

“Hey, sweetheart, my name’s Angela, what’s yours?”

The kid stares at you. You shrug at Angela.

“She hasn’t said a word since I found her.”

Angela purses her lips. “Mrs. Henderson is downstairs. Would you like to see her? She says looks after you everyday after school, is that right?”

When the kid just looks back to you, it occurs to you that you might be in a little bit of trouble here. You want the kid to be okay, absolutely, but you don’t really want to be the one she clings to. You rub at your bottom lip, and try harder.

“C’mon, kid. How about we go downstairs, and you and Mrs. Henderson can take a ride in the ambulance? The doctors need to check and make sure you’re not hurt, you know?”

She looks from you to your phone and back again. Next to you, Angela shifts, and you see her small smirk when you glance at her.

“Yeah, yeah okay. You can take my phone and keep watching Belle, okay? But you have to come with me to the ambulance and let them take care of you. Think you can do that?”

But she just keeps staring at you.

“Fuck,” you mutter, and run a hand through your hair. “Seriously, kid, you don’t want to stay in there forever, do you?”

“Mickey,” Angela warns, and you shoot her an apologetic look. You open your mouth to try again with the kid, but when you turn back to her she’s standing up, staring at you, phone at her side.

You chew on your lip, gently reaching out a hand to her. When she slowly reaches out to take it, you seriously want to pull her into your arms and hug her. So you do … kind of. You lift her into your arms to carry her down the stairs, but resist from actually hugging her. She doesn’t know you from the person who intruded into her house tonight, so you just carry her downstairs, past the covered body of who you’re assuming is her brother, and hope like fuck Mrs. Henderson knows how to handle her.

But when you get to Mrs. Henderson, a tiny woman who looks like she’s spent the last three weeks crying, it’s harder than you thought it would be to hand the kid over. Especially when she just keeps staring at you with those big brown eyes …

Jefferies leads Mrs. Henderson and the kid out the back door and away from the house, and the girl just stares at you until you’re out of sight. You don’t realise you’re staring right back until Angela clears her throat next to you.

“You okay?”

You ignore the question. “What’s her deal? How did you find out about her?”

“Mrs. Henderson,” she says. She picks something up from the coffee table then turns back to you. “It’s once in a fucking lifetime you get a witness like her, I swear. Mr. and Mrs. Gallagher out there have three kids.”

“Three?”

“Uh-huh. Jacob, who we think heard the disturbance and came looking, and Emily, who you found upstairs.” She hands you the framed photograph in her hands. “And this guy. The same guy Mrs. Henderson saw running from the house covered in blood.”

You look at the photo, try to take everyone in like you know you’re supposed to, but all you can see is the bright red hair of your favourite dancer.

\----------

“Ian Gallagher. Son of Monica and Clayton Gallagher. Twenty-one years old, red hair, blue eyes, coming in at five-foot-eleven. The deceased, Lucy Gallagher, is Ian’s step-mother, making Jacob and Emily his half-siblings, along with five others on his mother’s side who live on the South side.”

“His mother is a Gallagher, too?” Angela asks, even though the file is sitting right there in front of her.

You have the file open. Shit, you have the file open to Ian’s page, and you can’t fucking look away. Special Agent Winters is going over the case, the deceased, and the main suspect with you and Angela, but all you can process right now is _Ian Gallagher_.

You know his name.

“Ian’s mother was - possibly still is - married to Clayton’s brother, Frank. She and Clayton had a brief affair, which resulted in the birth of Ian. According to his CPS file, he found out his father was really his uncle when he was fourteen, and moved in with Clayton not long after.”

“Shit,” Angela mutters, and you vaguely nod along in agreement.

Special Agent Winters continues. “We have the names and addresses of his family on the South side. Warrant was issued first thing this morning, but nothing was found. We’ve got couple of beat cops watching the place, though, just in case. We also know that Ian is enrolled at U of C, but unfortunately not much else. According to the witness -” He checks the file, “- Mrs. Henderson, Ian hasn’t been actively involved with the family for a while now. At least a year. She said things didn’t end well on Ian’s last visit, but doesn’t have any details, so we can’t know anything for sure.”

“So what we know is sweet fuck all?” Angela asks.

“That’s right. Milkovich.”

Your head shoots up at your name, and you do your fucking best to act as though you weren’t both completely entranced by the picture in front of you and utterly horrified at what it could mean.

“Yeah?”

“A new phone is being sorted out for you as we speak. Young Emily seems very attached to the one you gave her, and no one is willing to pry it out of her hands.”

“Yeah, that’s cool. Is the kid all right?”

Winters nods. “She’s currently in the care of Mrs. Henderson. Now, you both have everything you need in the files in front of you. I have detectives Wallace and Munroe questioning the neighbours before they head over to the university to see what they can find. I’ll brief them on all of this later.”

Angela smirks at you. “They got the shit jobs. We’ve got the South side family, right?”

Winters rolls his eyes. “Yeah, but think yourself lucky. You know damn well I’m not thrilled with putting the kid on this case.”

You blink. “Then why are you?”

He shrugs. “South side roots, Milkovich. Plus, from what I’ve heard about the crime scene, you did a damn good job. Consider this to be your application for becoming a detective.”

He leaves the room and you stare at Angela. “Is he serious?”

“You did really fucking well today, kid. We get this Gallagher dude, you deserve whatever promotion comes your way.”

You look back down at the picture in your file and sigh.

“Listen,” she continues. “I’ve got to sign off on a couple of things before we can leave. Why don’t you pop over to the _Aces_ and get us some coffee.”

You nod and leave. You’ll take doing a coffee run if it gives you a few minutes to yourself, a few minutes to process everything you’ve just learned, because what the actual fuck?

Ian Gallagher. That’s all the information that sticks. You knew his physical attributes long ago, and right now the other shit doesn’t seem to matter. Ian Gallagher. The guy who dances for you twice a week. The guy who almost made you come just last night. The guy you thought about while jacking off just last night.

Your stomach churns, and you’re still not sure what with.

You turn left when you leave the precinct. _Aces_ is just up the street and across the road, and it’s like they set up shop for every cop cliché there is - excellent donuts, amazing coffee, and twenty-four hour service. You can’t count how many meals you’ve had there, or how many late-night coffee runs you’ve done.

The sun is already up as you make your way down the street, but you shove your hands into your hoodie pockets at the early morning chill. You try to think of something, anything, to help the case, but it’s useless. All you can think about is Ian Gallagher. You’ve been hot for this guy for months now, and you can’t deny the occasional fantasy of more than just getting a lap dance at the club, but …

When you met his family in those fantasies, it wasn’t because he was the prime suspect in a murder case.

“Fuck,” you mutter, and run a hand through your hair. You stop dead when someone replies.

“They say the first sign of madness is talking to yourself, you know?”

Before you can turn your head to match a face to the familiar voice, someone grabs you and pulls you deep into the alleyway. A hand covers your mouth and shoves your chest up against the brick wall behind a couple of dumpsters. You flail for your gun, but the guy who has you is too damn quick and has it out of your holster within seconds. He pushes his knee into your back, and you can see your gun in his hand out of the corner of your eye, but all you can really see is -

Ian Gallagher.

“Please,” he says, breath ghosting across your face. “I just want to talk.”

It’s not like you have much of a choice, or that you can answer. The guy’s definitely got some muscle on you, and even with your training, you’re not sure you could take him.

Plus there’s the fact that he’s holding your gun while being the main suspect in a very current murder case.

So you glare. Because it’s all you can do.

He leans closer, whispers right into your ear, and fuck if your dick doesn’t twitch at it. “I’m going to take my hand away, but I need you to not scream, okay?”

You raise your eyebrows and grunt _fuck you_ against his hand. He pulls away anyway.

“I didn’t do it,” he says simply, as soon as you turn to face him.

You take a few moments. “You expect me to believe you?”

“Yes.”

You blanch. “The fuck would I do that for?”

“Because it’s the truth.” Despite his words, his voice trembles.

“Fuck, man, you could tell me Santa Clause was your great grandpa and it wouldn’t be any less true than what you’re telling me now.”

“I didn’t do it,” he says again, each word clear and precise.

You stare at him, properly look at him for the first time, and he looks awful. Admittedly you’ve only seen him beneath the fluorescent lights at the club before now, but there’s no denying his pale skin, bloodshot eyes, and blood soaked hair. You grit your teeth.

“The neighbour saw you running from the scene.”

He nods shakily. “I said I didn’t do it, not that I wasn’t there.”

“You’re covered in their fucking blood, man.”

He looks down at himself, and you don’t miss the small shudder that goes through him. “I know.”

You continue to stare. “That’s it? That’s all you’ve got to say? There’s not a single line of defence in that whole conversation.”

“I don’t …” He steps back, throws his arms out wide and sighs. “I don’t have a defence! There’s the fact that I didn’t do it, and nothing else. That’s all I know. I went home and found them on the floor like that.”

“Bullshit.”

“You’ve got to believe me.”

“I don’t have to do shit.”

He steps forward again, and you press yourself to the wall, but the anguish in his voice distracts you from anything other than his words. _“Please._ I need your help. I have a little sister. I only saw Clayton, Lucy, and Jacob were there, which means maybe whoever did it took her with him, or … or she was, her body was -” He breaks off, breathing hard.

You swallow hard, knowing what you’re doing is wrong even as you open your mouth to do so. “Emily’s safe.”

“She …” He pulls back and, if possible, goes even whiter. “She’s okay?”

“Yeah. I found her hiding in her bedroom. She’s safe.”

Fat tears spill from Ian’s eyes as he turns slightly. “Fuck. _Fuck,”_ he breathes before a sob racks his body. He bends at the waist, hands at his stomach, and you give him a moment, pretend you can’t hear his sniffling. When he stands back up and faces you, his eyes are red but hopeful. “She wasn’t hurt?”

“She’s fine.”

“She’s fine,” he repeats. “Jesus, thank fuck. Thank _you.”_

You don’t know if this guy is just a fucking great actor or if he really is innocent. All you do know is what your gut is telling you. You sigh either way.

“I need to take you down to the station.”

He steps forward. “No. Not a chance. I - I didn’t do it.”

“Evidence says otherwise.”

“Well the evidence is fucking wrong!”

“Fuck you. Three people are dead and one little girl is scared shitless -” you jab your finger at his chest “- and all evidence we’ve found and heard is saying you’re to blame for that.”

“But you know I’m not,” he says quietly. “You believe me.”

“The fuck I do.”

“You wouldn’t still be standing here with me if you didn’t. You know I won’t shoot you, but you haven’t tried to get away once.”

And you can’t deny that. If you truly believed Ian Gallagher was the killer of his family - and there’s still a second set of footprints to consider - then you would have put up some kind of fight by now by now.

“I didn’t do it.”

You swallow. “Even if I did believe you, what do you expect me to do about it?”

“I don’t know. When I saw you arrive at the house I just … I hoped you’d help me.”

“You were there?”

He nods. “I came back, hoping to find out what had happened to Emily, but I took off once you and the other detective arrived.”

“Probably a good idea,” you say, rolling your eyes, but Ian’s own eyes stay soft as they stare down at you.

“I’m not stupid, I knew I’d be a primary suspect. Only one in the family left alive? No alibi? Even if I washed the blood off I’m still the most obvious fucking suspect there is.”

“But you still stuck around?”

“Emily.” He shrugs, as if that says it all, and it kind of does.

Silence follows, and you watch him inch closer and closer until he’s pressed right up against you and all you can smell is blood again.

“How the fuck did you even find me?”

He shrugs. “I recognised you at the house. When I overheard some cops mention your unit’s precinct I figured you’d have to turn up here eventually.”

You shake your head. “Fuck, man.”

He silent for a long time, and then, “You gonna tell me your name yet?”

You cock an eyebrow. “For someone who just lost half their family, you don’t seem too upset.”

“We weren’t exactly close.”

“This is not helping your case, Gallagher.”

“What do you want me to say? They’re my family, but they took me away from my real family. They’re good people, and it sucks that they’re dead, but I’m literally on the fucking run right now, man. I can’t think about what I saw three hours ago. I - I can’t fall apart yet. Not until my name is cleared and I have Emily safe with me.”

You say nothing and he steps back slightly.

“Did she see anything?” he asks.

“Not sure. She hasn’t spoken a word since I found her.”

His lip fucking trembles at that, and he sniffs again, looking away. “Try _Beauty and the Beast_. That’ll get her to come around to someone, and then maybe she’ll open up. She might have seen someone.”

“I know how to do my job.”

He looks back at you, hands you your gun. “Are you going to do your job now?”

Your hands fucking shake. You reach out and take the gun from him, but it’s with trembling hands and a fucked-up mind that knows you could be about to fucking execute your career.

But you can’t send an innocent man to prison - you were almost that innocent man once - and maybe you’re fucked in the head, but you do believe him. You lower your gun.

“My job right now is to get myself and detective Kavel coffees before we go and question your family.”

He nods, eyes wide. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it. Seriously.”

He nods again, and you watch as he pulls up the hood of his hoodie, lowers his head, and leaves.

You don’t realise until you get to _Aces_ that the shit stole your wallet.

_Fuck._


	2. Help Me get Away from Myself

The ride to the Gallagher house is silent, and it’s not until you begin to recognise old buildings that it clicks.

“Oh, shit.”

Angela glances at you. “What?”

You haven’t told her about Ian, but this is one secret you can’t keep. “Uh, I kinda know these people.”

“You know them? Like, all of them?”

“No. I don’t even know them well, but we grew up in the same neighbourhood, you know? So we used to cross paths every now and then, but that was before.”

You’re honestly not sure how you didn’t figure it out earlier. They’re probably not the only Gallaghers on the south side, but they were fucking infamous in your neighbourhood when you lived there, and Frank Gallagher was your most frequent flyer to the drunk tank after you became a cop.

“Before?” Angela asks.

You shrug. “Before O’Leary.”

She turns right, tapping her fingers on the steering wheel. “So you were never exactly close with the Gallaghers?”

“Fuck no.”

“And how long has it been since you last saw them?”

“Uh, since I transferred stations, so five years? Give or take a few months.”

“Okay.” She nods. “That’s fine. We can work with that.”

“Yeah?”

She smirks at you. “Kid, if you got turned away from a case every time you knew the suspect’s family, you wouldn’t have a job.”

She’s right. You’ve arrested more people from the South side, more people that you used to know, than you can count. It just comes with the job, and so does making sure they learn to respect you. Being a Milkovich has a whole different meaning these days. It took your neighbourhood a while to get that.

“So, you used to live around here?” she asks, even though you literally just told her that.

You watch her out of the corner of your eye. “Yeah.”

“This is - this is where all that stuff happened then, huh?”

 _All that stuff_. Angela’s the most badass person you know, and you were fucking psyched to find out she was going to become your mentor, but now she’s speaking in code like she’s fucking worried you’re going to break down and cry.

You cock an eyebrow. “All that stuff? You mean my old man killing most of my family?”

She fights a grin, and you think you would have hated any other response.

“Yeah, all that stuff.”

You shrug. “Just a couple of blocks away.”

“I read over the file, you know?”

“You did?”

“Of course. Had to know who I was working with.”

“Right.” You thumb at your lower lip. “So … you know everything then.”

“Yep.”

“And you still wanna work with me?”

“You did what you had to do, kid, and you saved your brother and sister’s life in the process.”

Your heart sinks, because you know she’s right, but it doesn’t change the fact that your mom is dead, three of your brothers are dead, and one of your brothers will never walk again. Or speak to you again. Nothing will change that, not even the fact that Terry is dead, too.

“Think this is it?” Angela says, pulling you out of your funk. You look up at the house across the road, recognising it as one of the many houses in the neighbourhood, but not recognising it as the Gallaghers’ house in particular. If it weren’t for the two black and whites out front, you wouldn’t know this house from the next.

Angela slips right back into her professional mode the second she leaves the car, and you follow her lead. It’s all well and good for her to give you advice and be fucking nice to you in her car, but it’s a different story once you’re on the job. On the job she’s your boss, and you better fucking remember it.

She ignores the two uniformed officers standing guard at the gate. You follow her right up to the front door, where she knocks with four quick, sharp taps. Yelling and curses follow, and if you hadn’t seen Ian Gallagher only an hour previously, you’d seriously wonder if the commotion was his family hurrying to hide him.

Then again, maybe Ian is inside. Maybe he figured that, since you told him where you were heading, it made it the most unlikely place he would be, which is exactly why he’s there, hiding upstairs while you’re downstairs questioning his family.

Or maybe this fucking mess is already making you fucking crazy.

The door is yanked open in front of you, and you stand up a little straighter. The woman in front of you looks from you to Angela and back again.

“Mickey _Milkovich?”_

Angela pulls out her badge. “That would be Detective Milkovich, if you don’t mind.”

You see Fiona Gallagher mouth the word _detective_ to herself, dubious look on her face before she squints at Angela’s badge. “Yeah, okay, then. Do you think perhaps you and _Detective_ Milkovich could tell me why the _fuck_ our home was tipped upside down this morning? Why you people were searching my home for my brother? And why the fuck we’ve had four cops sitting outside our house all morning, refusing to let my kids get to school?”

“I’m afraid there’s been an incident that we need to talk to you and your family about.”

“An incident?” She pales and pulls the door closed a little. “Holy shit, is it Ian? Is he okay? Tell me he’s fucking okay!”

Angela lifts her head slightly, and you take the cue. “At this stage we don’t know where Mr. Gallagher is, but we do believe him to be unharmed.”

“Thank fuck.” Fiona leans against the doorway, hand to her heart.

“However,” Angela continues, “his father, step-mother, and step-brother were killed early this morning in their home. Currently Ian Gallagher is our main suspect.”

“Are you - are you fucking kidding me?” Fiona stands tall, throwing the door wide open. “You better be fucking shitting me right now, because Ian would not hurt a fucking fly.”

You look at Angela, waiting to take her lead, and softly shake your head at the shine in her eyes. You know that look, know what it means when Angela looks at another woman like that, and you can’t fucking believe it.

She keeps her poise, though. “Miss Gallagher, if you would just let us inside so you and your family can answer a few questions for us, so we can answer any questions you might have, then this will all go a lot quicker.”

Fiona flips Angela off and goes to slam the door shut. You quickly shove your foot in the way, holding back the wince as it gets hit by the door, and use those Southside charms Winters had been talking about.

“Look, Gallagher. You either let us in to do our jobs now, or you and your family get hauled downtown to answer our questions there.”

She glares. “At least downtown we could get a lawyer.”

“You think you need a lawyer?”

She’s silent, and it’s a voice behind her that speaks up.

“Let them in, Fiona.”

She glares for a moment longer before opening the door. Standing behind her is Lip Gallagher, and you remember him better than the rest. The asshole was in a couple of your classes before you moved in with O’Leary, and from the shit-eating look on his face, you would bet he’s just as much of a douche now as he was then.

He says nothing, though, as you and Angela enter the house, Fiona leading you to the kitchen while he brings up the rear. The house doesn’t look any worse for wear than what you guess it would any other day - definitely not like the cops with the warrant tipped it upside down.

Three kids sit at the kitchen table, all looking confused as fuck, and Fiona glares at both and you Angela as she goes to stand close to them.

“This is Carl,” she says, resting one hand on the kid in front of her, then pointing to each family member as she introduces them. “Debbie, Liam, and Lip. Guys, this is Detective Kaval and Detective Milkovich. They’ve got some questions for us.”

“What about?” Carl asks, staring at you intently.

“Um, well.” Fiona scratches her head. “I’m afraid there’s been some bad news.”

“Frank finally carked it?” Debbie asks, going back to her phone.

“No, uh … your uncle Clayton is dead. So is Aunt Lucy. And Jacob.”

All the Gallaghers stare at Fiona with wide eyes.

“All of them?” Lip asks quietly.

“They were murdered,” you tell them.

Debbie quickly stands. “Is Ian okay?”

The image of him hunched over, crying over his sister comes to mind, and you shove it away. “We believe so.”

“And Emily?”

Fiona blinks a few times and turns to you, jaw dropped like she couldn’t believe she had forgotten to ask about the little girl.

“Emily’s safe,” you say, looking at Debbie.

Debbie slumps back into her chair. “Thank fuck.”

“Debs, language in front of Liam.”

Angela steps forward. “You have our condolences about your family, and you can be rest assured that Emily is being well looked after. What we’re here to talk about, though, is your brother, Ian. Ian is currently our prime suspect in this investigation, and -”

Every Gallagher in the room starts yelling, and you sigh in frustration. You seem to remember something about them being drama queens. You wait it out with Angela and wish like fuck that you lighting up a smoke wouldn’t come across as unprofessional.

And that you hadn’t quit smoking weed. You’d kill for a fucking blunt right about now.

“Okay, listen up.” You step forward, hands raised. “I understand that this is a shock for you all, and that you all want to defend your brother, okay? But we’ve got a job to do, and it will go a hell of a lot easier and quicker if you all cooperate.”

They’re all silent, looking around at each other. Finally Carl looks at you and speaks.

“Are you the Milkovich who killed his dad?”

It’s not the first time you’ve been asked, and it won’t be the last. You look the kid over, trying to figure out which direction to take while answering, but it’s pretty simple. Even if Ian hadn’t told you that his little brother had just gotten out of juvie, he’s got that look about him; the one that says he’d jump at the fucking chance to go to back if it meant upping his rep. You make your eyes go hard.

“Yep.”

He swallows and looks away. “Oh.”

“We’re going to question you one at a time,” Angela says, then turns to you. “Go bring in one of the guys from outside. I want these people watched while each one is being questioned.”

“ _These people_ are right here, you know?” Fiona says, looking affronted.

Angela nods, eyes still shining. “Yes.”

You smirk and turn away to do as she says. When you come back in, Officer Parks behind you, all the Gallaghers have been moved into the living room. Except Lip. You make your way back into the kitchen and sit next to Angela at the table, opposite Lip Gallagher.

“Mr. Gallagher here offered to go first,” Angela tells you, smile on her lips. You only pick up on the edge in her voice because you’ve done this with her so many times now.

You frown and pull out your notebook. “Oh yeah? Why’s that, Gallagher?”

The dick actually rolls his eyes at you. “There are things about Ian you should know - things the rest of my family will probably try and hide from you.”

“What kind of things?” Angela asks.

“Ian’s sick. He has bipolar disorder.”

Your eyebrows furrow just slightly at his words. You know enough about bipolar disorder from the night classes you’re taking to be surprised, but you keep your surprise to yourself and try to apply this new information to the case. You make a couple of notes, then lie your hands flat on the table and let Angela do the talking.

“This is something that’s been clinically diagnosed?”

Lip nods. “Yes, Ma’am. He had his first psychotic break when he was seventeen, and he’s been on and off his medication since.”

“On and off?”

“Yeah. I mean, he usually only stops taking them for a couple of weeks before someone figures it out and talks him back into it, or before he does something …”

Angela prods with a small head tilt. “Something?”

“I dunno. Crazy, I guess.”

“I see.” She pauses for a long moment, and you know she’s letting Gallagher settle, know she’s trying to let him feel comfortable with his admissions. “Mr. Gallagher, does you brother have a history of violent behaviour?”

Lip’s head shoots up from where he had been staring morosely at the table, his eyes far too wide for your comfort. “I - well, I mean … it’s just that - fuck -”

“Yes or no, Gallagher,” you say, and tap the table a couple of times with your hand.

He nods. “Yeah. Yeah, Ian has a temper, but that doesn’t mean he killed his family. Christ, they’re his fucking family.”

They weren’t his family. You know that. You wonder why Lip doesn’t.

“But you have seen him lose his temper before?” Angela prods.

“Yeah. But he’s bipolar, you know?”

“You think his temper has something to do with his bipolar disorder?”

He shrugs. “Maybe.”

Angela glances at you and you do it. “Is that why you told us about the bipolar?” you ask. “Because you think that might play into the reason Ian did what he did?”

Lip’s silent for a long time, and you don’t realise how desperately you want his answer to be no until it’s not.

“I guess. I’m not saying I think he did it, because I don’t. I just thought you should know that - that he’s not well.”

Angela clasps her hands in front of her on the table. “So you’re saying that, if we find out Mr. Gallagher did do this, it’s due to his mental illness?”

Lip nods, and you heart feels heavy and confused.

“Okay.” Angela nods and looks at you. You stare back for a moment before remembering you’re supposed to be taking notes. You quickly jot down what Lip Gallagher has told you while Angela continues talking. “Is there anything else you can tell us? An address? Place of employment? Friends’ names?”

Your stomach ices over and you don’t know what the fuck is wrong with you, why the fuck you’ve let everything you’ve worked for go down the drain in one fucking morning. You glance quickly between your boss and the person she’s questioning, and hope like fuck that Ian dancing at a gay club was something he kept from his family.

“Ian’s a pretty private person, so I don’t know where he was living,” Lip admits, “but I know he was dancing at one of the clubs in Boystown.”

You stare at the notepad in your hand, write _Boystown_ with shaky hands. You ignore the gleam in Angela’s eyes when she quickly glances at you.

“You know the name of this place?” Angela asks.

“Something about a fairy tale?”

You want to roll your eyes - because _The Fairytale_ ; how fucking hard is it to remember that? - but you can’t because you feel so fucking sick to your stomach that you stand and ask Gallagher where the nearest bathroom is. You ignore Angela’s watchful eye as you close the bathroom door behind you and take a few solid breaths. You close your eyes, count to five, count to ten, count to thirty-five before you’re calm enough to fucking think.

There’s too much going on, too much you suddenly know. Ian is the number one suspect for a triple homicide. Ian has bipolar. Ian has violent tendencies. Ian assures you he didn’t do it. Ian is a dancer at _The Fairytale_. Ian is _your_ dancer at _The Fairytale_ …

Ian is even more beautiful in the light of the sunrise. Ian is so relieved his sister is okay that he cried in front of you. Ian is telling you the truth.

You’re going to get caught out. Someone at _The Fairytale_ is going to recognise you, and then it will all be over. You might get away with what happened this morning staying between you and Ian, but this alone will ruin you. This is something you should have told Angela the moment it happened, the second you recognised Ian in that fucking photograph.

When you leave the tiny bathroom, Angela is questioning Carl, but her pen does nothing but doodle on the notepad in front of you, and you can guess what she’s thinking: the two of you have got all you’re going to get. No one else in this family is going to have anymore information for you, and even questioning the rest of the family is probably a waste of time.

But it’s a waste of time you have to go through. It’s the fucking job.

\----------

The ride back to the station is even tenser than the ride to the Gallaghers’ had been, but this time you just don’t care. It’s done. You’ve fucked up big time, and there’s nothing you can do to change or fix that now. You lied about a case, you lied to your superiors, you lied by omission when you didn’t tell Angela that you saw Ian …

And you hate it. You became a cop to put people like Terry behind bars, but along the way you realised and learned what rules needed to be followed and when. By believing that Ian is innocent, you just broke one huge fucking rule.

Angela keeps looking at you like she wants to say something, but you have no idea what and you don’t plan on finding out. One of the station receptionists had called just as you were finishing up at the Gallagher house, informing Angela that your new phone was ready and waiting, and when Angela pulls up in front of the station, you jump out without giving her the chance to ask questions.

“Same phone, different colour, same number,” Jasmine tells you, just as Angela makes her way into the station, her own phone glued to her ear. “We’ve disconnected your old phone’s number, but kept everything else on there. Fortunately for Emily, her godmother has excellent wifi service.”

You cock an eyebrow. “She’s still using my phone? Don’t they have computers there?”

“They do, but apparently she’s quite attached.”

“Right. Thanks.”

You turn to find Angela still on the phone, so you take the minute to boot yours up. Everyone at the station knows they can get hold of you through Angela, but you’re worried Mandy might have been trying to contact you.

Angela finishes her phone call and comes over. “Bad news,” she says, then pauses with a smirk on her face. “Well, bad for you.”

“What is it?”

“I’m afraid I have to head over to Boystown alone.”

The relief you should feel isn’t there. “Why?”

“Because you’re needed elsewhere. Sorry, kid. I’m sure you were really looking forward to questioning Gallagher’s colleagues,” she says with a wink, and you scowl because what the fuck else can you do? “But Mrs. Henderson called. Emily’s been asking for you.”

Your eyebrows shoot up. “She’s talkin’?”

“Not exactly. Let’s go.”

The entire car ride back to the North side consists of Angela promising to bring in anyone who seems suspicious and let you interrogate them. She assures you that she’ll grab the numbers of any guy she deems good enough for you, and even cracks a joke about taking a picture or two.

“Isn’t that totally inappropriate?”

“Always ruining my fun.” She rolls her eyes, but you know she’s a stickler for the rules.

The same rules you’re getting away with breaking out of sheer fucking luck, but you don’t feel even a little bit lucky. You still feel sick with guilt at what you’ve done, and the relief at not having to go to Boystown isn’t as immediate as it should be. You just keep thinking about your job and how you’ve probably completely fucked it up.

And Ian. You keep thinking about Ian. Just his name is constantly on your mind - _Ian Gallagher_ \- and it’s enough to make you crazy. Add that to everything else you’ve found out about him in the last couple of hours - his illness, his violent temper, his innocence - and it’s enough to drive you up the fucking wall. And Angela, being the amazing fucking detective that she is, seems to realise it.

“Mickey, if this case is too much for you -”

“The fuck? Why would it be too much for me?”

“Just … there were a lot of similarities between this one and -”

“There were no similarities,” you interrupt. “Well, there was a shit-load of blood, but that’s it.”

“It’s still an entire family, killed.”

“Not an entire family.”

She’s silent for a long moment, glancing at you frequently. Finally, she nods. “You’re right. Emily is still alive, and hopefully able to help us with our investigation.”

You nod, but say nothing about Ian. Ian is alive, too, but you suppose he doesn’t exactly count in what Angela’s saying, seeing as she thinks he killed the rest of them. You sigh and say nothing, and Angela doesn’t say anything else until she gets to Mrs. Henderson’s.

“I’ll call you when I’m on my way back, okay?”

You nod again. “Got it.”

“Good luck!”

You wave her off, watch her leave, then head for the front door. There’s an armed officer standing guard, and you know there will be another one around the back. You show her your badge, then head inside when she opens the door for you.

Mrs. Henderson looks up when you enter the living room. She’s sitting on the large sofa while Emily sits at her feet and draws. _Beauty and the Beast_ plays on the TV. Mrs. Henderson rushes over as soon as she spots you. “You came, thank goodness.”

“Yeah, though I’m still a little fuzzy on the details. What’s going on?”

She leads you over to the coffee table. “All morning,” she says, as though that explains everything. “All morning it’s been the same thing, the same pictures over and over again, and I still can’t believe it took me so long to figure it out.”

Your heart thuds because you’ve heard about this, read about it, about kids and adults who draw what or who they saw, who help the investigation without saying a single word. But then Mrs. Henderson picks up a bunch of papers and your heart drops.

“Mickey Mouse,” she says, smiling. “I thought she was just drawing him because she liked him, but after a while she got very intense about it. Only stopped when I made the connection and asked if she wanted to see you.”

You sigh. Of course Emily wasn’t drawing something that would crack the case; you would never be sent here alone if she was.

You look away from Mickey Mouse to look at Emily properly for the first time since arriving. She stares up at you silently, those big brown eyes not once leaving yours. As you watch, her hand not holding a crayon slowly emerges from beneath the table, your old phone clasped tightly in it.

You grin and turn to Mrs. Henderson. “Think you could give us a few minutes alone?”

She doesn’t look happy about it, but she nods. “Of course. I’ll make you some coffee then catch up on a bit of housework.”

“Great.”

You wait until she leaves before you sit down opposite Emily on the floor. She continues to stare at you, so you stare back, not sure that you’re the person for this job. You had been able to cajole her out of hiding this morning, but that was different, that was impulse and instinct in the middle of a crime scene. This is something else, but because you don’t know what that something is, you go with a simple, blatant question.

“You talkin’ yet?”

She blinks and says nothing.

“Right, right, of course not. What about this movie? You sick of it? You wanna watch something else?”

Still nothing, but a hard glint enters her eyes and it makes you smile. You hold your hands up, surrendering.

“Okay, okay, we’ll keep watching Belle and her beast. Jeez, how many times you seen this movie? Probably a lot, right? I remember my sister used to watch it all the time when we were kids, but that was on video, so the tape eventually got pretty screwed up what with all the rewinding and replaying.”

Emily says nothing, but you know she’s listening.

“Man, Mandy was pissed when it wouldn’t play anymore. You wouldn’t believe the way she screamed the fucking house down - well, actually, if you knew her you’d believe it without a second thought. Decent pair of lungs on her, that one.”

You know you’re rambling, but Emily continues to watch you intently, so you keep going. Hell, it feels kind of nice to talk about this shit to someone without expecting judgement in return.

“Personally, I always preferred _Aladdin,”_ you tell her. “I mean, I guess Belle’s Prince Adam is kinda good looking, even though you barely see him as a human, but Aladdin … he’s got that whole bad-boy thing going on, you know?”

Emily frowns, and for a second you wonder if you’ve gone way past inappropriate and right into so fucking wrong. But then she pushes one of her drawings towards you. You gently touch your fingers to it as she slides it across the table.

“Is this …” You frown and pick it up, because it looks like it’s supposed to be Belle and Prince Adam, but Belle is less than half the size of her prince. You look at Emily. “Is this Prince Adam?”

Nothing. You look a little closer, at the blue eyes and shorter-than-usual red hair.

“You dad?” She still just stares, and you only manage to breathe out your next words. “Your brother? Ian?”

Her head tilts up slightly, and you’re sure the corner of her mouth quirks at what could be close to a smile. You lie the paper back down.

“So this is Ian? Pretending to be Prince Adam? And this is you pretending to be Belle, right?”

That small smile grows, and if that’s how a little girl responds to talk of her brother, if that’s how this little girl sees her brother, the one suspected of murdering the rest of her family, then there’s no fucking way he did it.

Or maybe she just doesn’t know that he did it.

You thumb at your lip. You believe Ian, you truly do, but there’s that nagging tug of disbelief pulling at your head, not for any other reason than you know that’s what you’re _supposed_ to feel. Innocent until proven guilty, but if you’re doing your job properly, then you need to consider him guilty until there’s more than just his word claiming his innocence.

But you don’t have that. You have nothing.

Except maybe this girl in front of you who might have seen what happened the night before.

This girl who isn’t currently talking.

So you do your job. You pick up a purple crayon and you keep talking.

“So … it sucks about your family, huh?” Awesome. Good one. Excellent fucking work. You cringe at your own words, at the blank expression that falls right back over Emily’s face. “What I mean is that I know how it feels. My family is dead, too.”

Nothing. She lowers her head and goes back to her drawing. Whatever walls you had managed to scrape at have gone right back up, and you’ve only got yourself to blame, but you keep going. The gut instinct that helped you find Emily that morning tells you to keep going.

“My dad was a bad person,” you tell her, fiddling with the crayon between your fingers. “When he got really angry he would hurt everyone in my family - my mom, my brothers, my sister. Me. One night he got too angry.”

She stops drawing, but her head is still lowered. You keep going.

“I was out with a friend,” you continue. You had actually been out blowing the guy who worked at the movie theatre, but you leave that part out. “When I got home, my mom was dead, and so were my brothers.”

Emily looks up, eyes wary. You hold the crayon still.

“You want me to stop talking?”

She turns her head to the right, a barely there gesture that could almost be confused for a twitch.

You nod, but think through your words carefully. “My dad was really angry that night. Me, Mandy, and Iggy, we’re all alive, but my mom and other brothers? My dad killed them. I saw him do some of it.”

You lean forward, elbows on the coffee table. “Emily. Did you see who hurt your family?”

Another twitch. This time a nod.

“Was it Ian?”

Her eyes widen, and then you get the strongest reaction out of her you’ve had since finding her. She shakes her head back and forth, quickly and meaningfully, and doesn’t stop until you reach forward and place your hand just next to hers.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay. It wasn’t Ian, is that what you’re telling me?” Her head moves up and down, just as enthusiastically, and you smile softly. “Okay. It’s all right. I believe you.”

She calms, but still seems to watch you cautiously. Mrs. Henderson chooses that moment to bring you in a cup of coffee. You bite your lip and take the time to try to figure out your next move, but come up with nothing. You got what you needed from Emily, but you know it won’t be enough -

You stop twirling the crayon, something you hadn’t even realised you were doing until you were doing it, and blink wildly. You got what you needed from Emily, but did Emily get what she needed from you? She wanted to see you, not the other way around.

Mrs. Henderson leaves. You watch Emily, and she’s drawing Mickey Mouse again. You ask if you could have a piece of paper, too, and her eyes light up a little as she hands you the paper. You begin to doodle, eyes flicking up to watch her every few seconds. Getting the information you needed had been easy enough - all you had to do was ask questions - but if Emily asked you here for a reason, figuring out that reason won’t be so simple.

There’s something she wants you to know, but won’t outright tell you.

You draw Cogsworth, hoping it will make her smile, and try something easy.

“You know my name’s not really Mickey Mouse, right? I mean, he’s a handsome mouse, and I’m a handsome guy, so I understand how you would get us confused.”

When you glance up at her, she’s still watching herself draw, but there’s a hint of a smirk on her face.

“And, I know you probably don’t believe me, but I’m much cooler than Mickey Mouse. I mean, I’m a cop,” you say, as if that explains everything.

Emily’s smirk grows, but you get the feeling she’s more amused at you than what you’re telling her, so you go back to your drawing. You finish Cogsworth, and manage to draw Mrs. Potts and Chip before an idea hits you. You bite your lip and do the exact opposite of the Southside charm that had been expected of you that morning.

“Hey, Emily, I have an idea.” You wait until she glances up at you before continuing. “How about I draw something for you, and you draw something for me? That way I can take your picture home with me, and you can keep mine here with you. What do you think?”

She stares and stares, and just when you think you’re about to get the silent _no,_ she reaches for fresh paper - one piece for herself, and one for you - along with her original drawing of Belle and Beast. Her and Ian. She raises her eyebrows, and you nod.

“You want me to draw this? Yeah, okay.”

She nods again, just slightly, and stares at you expectantly. You open your mouth, already hating yourself for your next words, knowing this is a therapist’s job, not yours, but also knowing that Angela will be fucking proud of you for doing it. If you can ever bring yourself to tell her.

“Think you could draw the person you saw last night? The one who hurt your family?”

All walls shut right back down, and you lean forward to whisper quickly.

“Emily, the other police all think Ian did it. They all think Ian hurt your family and that he was going to hurt you. I know that’s not true, and you know that’s not true, but I need your help to make everyone else believe us.”

She frowns, so you place your hand next to hers again.

“I know it’s not nice, but Ian really needs your help here.”

Her frown gets deeper and deeper, until her entire face is scrunched up in anger. Then she bows her head and starts drawing.

\----------

You keep Emily’s drawing tucked into your back pocket, and all you can think about is that you’re now hiding _evidence_ from your bosses and your partner, along with your unexpected meeting with Ian that morning. And every dance you’ve ever had from Ian.

Christ, there’s just too much about Ian that you’re hiding.

But, you suppose, your new evidence consists of a stick-figured, brown-haired man covered in odd lines. You don’t know what it’s supposed to mean, but Emily had looked at you so earnestly when she had handed it over that all you could do was smile and thank her.

Angela drops you off at home a little after nine. There’s been no break in the case, no hint to where Ian might be, and no lab results back yet. The only useful information they had was that Ian hadn’t been seen at U of C in at least two months. Other than sitting around at the station, going through Clayton and Lucy Gallaghers’ address book again, there was nothing to do but go home.

“Get some rest, kid,” she says as you open the car door. “You’re gonna need it. If we don’t have anything by this time tomorrow, then Winters will probably take us off the case.”

“Really?”

She cocks an eyebrow. “Three North-side people get killed in their own home? By their own son? Yeah, the big guns are going to want this solved ASAP.”

Of course. And if you and Angela aren’t getting it solved, then you’re out. Goodbye, Detective Milkovich.

You mutter a goodbye to Angela and head inside, wanting nothing more than a hot shower and the chance to drink yourself stupid, but the drinking-yourself-stupid thing isn’t a thing you let yourself do anymore, so you’re going to have to deal with a hot shower and a cold beer. And then bed. You haven’t slept in eighteen hours, and you haven’t slept in your bed in even longer.

You miss your bed. You have a decent fucking bed, and all you want to do is crawl beneath your warm blankets and forget today ever happened.

You stomp up three flights of stairs and open your front door, ready to do just that. You’ll flag the shower and beer, even, if it means getting right into that comfortable bed.

You know the second you step inside that you’re not alone.

It’s that same gut instinct, a sixth sense all cops develop after a few months on the job. You quickly lick at the backs of your teeth and quietly pull your gun out of your holster. Your apartment enters into the tiny kitchen, and from where you’re standing half your apartment is out of view. The lamp at your table is still on from when you fell asleep working the night before, but it shows you sweet fuck all.

You flick the safety off your gun, thankful for your training and the four seconds it takes from the moment you enter your apartment to the second you barge into the living room, gun raised in front of you.

Ian jumps in the chair by the window, quickly raising his arms. “Holy fuck, dude, don’t shoot me!”

You start to lower the gun. “The fuck are you doing here?”

He stands and reaches into his hoodie, stopping when you pull the gun back up, point it right between his eyes.

“I - I’m not armed,” he says, voice soft. This time he moves slowly, one hand still in the air, and eventually pulls a wallet from his pocket. “I just thought I should return this.”

He drops it onto the coffee table with this stupid little smirk, and you glare at him. It’s yours. It’s your fucking wallet. You knew Ian had taken it - had realised it as soon as you noticed it was gone. But you hadn’t given it much thought since. Nothing more than the generic _shit, I can’t put in for dinner because I lost my wallet_ , which had ended at that when Angela spoiled you rotten with a meat lovers pizza.

But now, now that it’s right in front, you want to kick yourself. Or Ian.

You lower your gun and look at him. “Breaking and entering is a crime.”

“And it’s the only one I’ve committed.”

You sigh and put your gun away, not sure your head can handle talking about that right now. “What are you doing here, Ian?”

“Figured it’d be safe. I mean, who’s gonna look for the main suspect of a murder case at the lead investigator’s apartment, right, Mickey?”

“I’m not the lead investigator,” you say, not sure why that’s suddenly important, but know you’d rather think about that than the way he says your name.

“Honestly, all I was hoping for was a bit of cash to tide me over - I even planned on paying you back once all of this was sorted - but then your address was on your licence and …”

“And?”

He shrugs. “I wanted to see where you lived.”

“That’s fucking creepy. You know that, right?”

“Says the guy who pays me to dance for him twice a week.”

“That’s not creepy, that’s your job.”

“It’s my job to dance for you, it’s not your job to pay me to do it.”

You glare. “No, my fucking job is to figure out who the fuck killed your family, and so far all we’ve got is you.”

His entire face drops. “I thought you believed me.”

You say nothing. You don’t know what to say. Admitting to Ian that you believe him isn’t going to do either of you any good. If anything, it will just get his hopes up about you helping him, when, in reality, you have no fucking idea how to do that. Other than Emily, the girl who hasn’t said a word since her family died, you have nothing.

The nods of a five-year-old girl are not enough evidence for a jury.

“This is a nice place, Mickey.” He changes the subject casually, and you don’t even try to stop him when he takes a step closer to you. “I particularly enjoyed the shower.”

You give him a critical once-over in the dim light, trying not to think about him in your shower … naked, wet, soapy. You clear your throat. “Jesus, are you wearing my clothes?”

“I couldn’t very well put my own clothes back on. They were filthy.”

You shake your head. “You steal my wallet, break into my home, use my shower … you eat my food, too? Drink my beer?”

“No. Maybe.”

“Did you at least leave me some beer?”

He fucking grins. “Of course, Mickey, it’s your beer.”

You scowl. “Would you stop fucking saying my name like that?”

“Like what, Mickey?”

“I will punch you.”

His smile fades. “C’mon, man, I’m going fucking crazy here. Let me get my kicks where I can, huh?”

You know enough to know it’s inappropriate to link the two together, but you say it anyway. “We spoke to your family today.”

“Yeah, and?”

“And your brother told us you’re bipolar.”

His eyes cloud over. “Of course he fucking did. Probably thought he was protecting me, right? Fucking Lip.”

“So you are bipolar?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.”

“Okay? That’s it?”

You shrug. “What else would there be?”

“I dunno. Don’t you wanna take me in for a psych evaluation? See if they say I’m crazy?”

You instantly regret your previous choice of words. “Na. I’m good.”

He stares at you for a long minute before replying. “Holy shit. You really do believe me.”

You glare at him, but look away quickly. You can’t look at him for too long. Not this guy; this guy you pay to dance for you; this guy you jerk off to; this guy who’s standing in your apartment, hiding from your colleagues, and looking at you like he owes you the fucking world.

And that’s the problem. You don’t know Ian Gallagher. You know the guy you flirt with twice a week, the guy who flirts right back, the guy who stares at you so fucking intently when he’s grinding on your lap. You know the guy who’s accused of killing his family, the guy who has bipolar, the guy who’s on the fucking run from the cops.

But you don’t know Ian.

You really, really want to know Ian.

“Sit down,” you tell him, and indicate to the chair he was previously sitting in. “We need to talk.”

He sits, elbows braced on his knees and hands clasped in front of him. You turn away, head for the kitchen to grab a couple of beers and get your head straight. You know you need to treat this like any other investigation, question him like it’s any other investigation, but you can’t, you won’t. You know this, even as you pop open the two beers and hand one to him.

So you sigh and sit on the sofa opposite him. You rub a hand over your face, take a long drink, and try your fucking best.

“Tell me what happened.”

He nods, face open and eager. “Yeah, okay. Uh, I finished my shift at eleven, about an hour after you left, then I grabbed a bite to eat with one of the other dancers, and went home to play video games.”

“What time did you get home?”

“A little after one.”

“And you played video games? At one in the morning?”

He nods. “Yeah. I’m always way too wound up to sleep when I get home from a night of dancing, so I just chill out for a while before bed.”

You want to roll your eyes at your own absolute lack of chill time, but you hold yourself back. “Yeah, okay, then what?”

“I guess I fell asleep. Woke up to my phone vibrating on my chest and a text from Dad, telling me they needed me to come over and watch Emily.”

You sit up a little straighter, hand held up in front of you. “Hold the fuck up. Are you saying they text you? That’s why you were there?”

“Yeah. It’s not actually that uncommon. Jacob gets really bad asthma, and his attacks often happen in the middle of the night. If it’s bad enough I’ll have to go and sit with Emily until they get back. I’m the only one she’ll properly settle for after seeing Jacob like that.”

“Do you still have the text?”

He looks sheepish. “Yeah, but I don’t have my phone.”

“Why the fuck don’t you have your phone?”

“I didn’t want you and your police buddies tracking it! So I hid it.”

“Where?”

“South side.”

_“Where?”_

He purses his lips and then answers. “You know those abandoned buildings by the Burger King that burned down because of the meth lab next door? In there.”

You lower your head and run a hand through your hair, trying to figure out which topic of conversation to go with first. You decide to ignore the fact that, since taking your wallet and identification, he clearly knows of your family, possibly of you, and definitely knows you’re south side.

“I’ll figure out a way to get it tomorrow,” you tell him. “if the text is still there, then it’ll at least show you didn’t go there with the intention of hurting anyone.”

“Well, that’s great and all, but I need something to prove I also didn’t actually hurt anyone.”

“Yeah, yeah, we’ll get to that. Tell me what happened when you got to your parents’ place. Every detail you can remember.”

“There’s not much to tell, man. I got there as quickly as I could, used my key to get inside, and found them on the living room floor. There was fucking blood, just …” He breaks off, hands clenched into fists between his knees, breath coming in short gasps. You watch him, and it takes a moment for you to realise he’s not calming down on his own.

“Hey. Ian.” You stand up and take the two steps it takes to reach him, hand out in front of you until it’s gently pressing against his arm. “Hey, man, it’s cool, okay? Just breathe.”

He looks at you as you crouch down in front of him, and his breathing slowly becomes more regular, his fists unclench, and he flushes red.

“Sorry,” he mutters, wiping sweat away from his brow. “There was just a lot of blood.”

You go back to your seat, refusing to think about your own stomach-churning reaction to the same blood. “It’s cool. Take your time.”

He finishes his beer before he begins talking again. “I, uh, checked them, you know, to see if they were alive, even tried CPR on my dad until I realise my hands were basically inside his chest, which just made me lose my shit in the kitchen sink.”

You say nothing, but your mind immediately goes to that tiny droplet you found on the kitchen floor. You don’t know if it will be good or bad for Ian if it comes back with his DNA.

“I called for Emily a few times, but all I heard was a crash outside, so …”

“So?”

“So I followed it. I don’t know if it was the person who did all this, or just a neighbour’s fucking cat, but I followed those bloody footprints, the drops of blood, for as long as I fucking could, but I still didn’t find Emily.”

You swallow heavily at the anguish in his voice. “Ian, Emily’s fine.”

He rubs his thumb and forefinger over his eyes. “Yeah. Yeah, I know, I just … I was so scared for her.”

“And that’s why you came back?”

He shrugs. “I couldn’t see anymore blood to follow, I didn’t hear her screaming for help, so I figured maybe she was still inside the house. Maybe she was okay, you know?”

You say nothing for a while, and Ian waits. When you do speak again, you kind of hate the doubt in your voice.

“Why didn’t you say anything? At the house, you could have come up to us, told us what you had seen.”

He clenches his jaw. “Thought about it, until I heard the neighbourhood gossips talking about how whatever happened must have been to do with that _no-good south-side boy whose ‘proclivity’ brought shame to the family_.”

“Ouch.”

He sighs. “I don’t know if running was the right thing to do, Mickey. I mean, shit, of course it wasn’t, but I wasn’t about to go down for something I didn’t do.”

“I know, man, I get it.” You do. Maybe a little too well.

He looks away for a long moment, and when he looks back at you his eyes are pleading. “You really do believe me, don’t you?”

You rub at your mouth. “Look, man, I’m not supposed to talk to the public about this case, let alone our main suspect -”

“Who you’re keeping hidden in your apartment.”

“Dude, I - this is a fucked up situation, okay? My boss doesn’t even know that I know you, and, shit, I don’t know you! But …”

“You feel like you do?”

Yes. No. You don’t fucking know. Only half an hour ago you had desperately wanted to know this Ian. Not dancer Ian, or suspect Ian, or bipolar Ian. Just Ian. Now you don’t see dancer/suspect/bipolar when you look at him. He’s not the guy who everyone at the station is on the look out for, he’s not the guy who told you just last night that he jerks off to you, he’s not the guy whose brother sold him and his illness out to the police.

He’s all those things and none of those things and a whole lot of other things you can’t bring yourself to consider yet.

He’s Ian.

He’s leaving the chair, on his knees in front of you, big eyes not once leaving yours. “Tell me you believe me, Mick. I need to know I’ve got you on my side.”

You swallow hard and lick your lips. Ian’s gaze dips down for that split second, and you know you’re in so much fucking trouble. You reach forward, push his hair out of his eyes, and your heart fucking races at being allowed to touch him.

“Yeah. I believe you.”

He lets out a long sigh, grabs your hand, and presses his face into it. “Thank fuck.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr!](http://wehangout.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Thanks to [Ella](http://hubrisandwax.tumblr.com/), as usual, and to everyone who left a comment and/or kudos! They are very much appreciated!


	3. You can have My Absence of Faith

You wake up with sun shining in your eyes and Ian’s head on your shoulder. Your back fucking aches from sleeping on the couch last night and at the table the night before, and your hand closest to Ian is numb, but you’re not sure you’ve ever been more comfortable in your life - there’s a warm body next to you, soft snores breathing onto your collarbone, and a feeling in your heart that you don’t want to think about yet.

So you stay where you are, slouched on the couch, staring at Ian, trying not to think about anything but his smooth skin, his scattered freckles, his rust-coloured eyelashes …

It’s not that difficult.

After admitting _out loud_ that you believed Ian was innocent, you were too exhausted to talk about much more. And Ian seemed to feel the same, if the way he slowly climbed onto the sofa next to you was anything to go by. The rest of the night was spent in silence, reruns of _That 70s Show_ playing in the background, until you both passed out.

He certainly wasn’t sitting this close when you fell asleep.

You look away sharply when he wakes, and consider closing your eyes to pretend you hadn’t woken up and been okay with him sleeping on you, but it’s too much fucking effort. So you glance back at him as he sits up and wipes at his mouth.

He smiles softly when he meets your gaze. “Morning.”

You look away again, the sound of his sleep-warmed voice doing things to your insides. “Coffee?”

“Fuck yeah.”

You go about making the coffee, watching out of the corner of your eye as he stands and stretches out his stiff limbs, and it’s fucking irritating … and awesome. He reaches up so his hands are parallel to the ceiling, throws his head back, and lets out this stupid groan that causes your dick to twitch in your pants. You turn to stare, eyes wide and mouth dry as that bit of skin above his low-slung jeans becomes visible where his hoodie has worked its way up his abs …

He catches you looking, and the usual smirk that comes with that turns into a full-blown grin. You flip him off and go back to the coffee. Sure, he’s going through some serious shit, but you can’t help but wonder why you haven’t fucked him yet. He spent the night in your apartment, curled up with you on the fucking couch.

And nothing happened.

You wonder if it’s because he didn’t want anything to happen. Maybe this is entirely one-sided, and he tells every guy he dances for that he jerks off while thinking about them. Shit, the only reason he’s here with you now is because you’re a fucking cop and he needs your help.

You scowl, and turn to face him, not sure what you’re going to say, only to find him standing right behind you. Really fucking close.

He stares at you and you stare back before handing him his coffee just for something to do.

“Thank you,” he says, voice heavy with emotion, and you respond automatically.

“It’s just coffee.”

“I’m not talking about the coffee.”

You look away and take a large mouthful from the _#1 cop_ mug Mandy brought you when you graduated from the academy. “It’s my job, man,” you say, as though you haven’t just burnt off thousands of taste buds.

“Yeah, well, you’re kind of going above and beyond the call of service for me, Mickey. I owe you.”

You look up at him from beneath your lashes and suck your bottom lip into your mouth, and you don’t mean for it to come across as anything sexual, you genuinely don’t, but when his gaze flicks down to your mouth, your heart stutters and your palms begin to sweat. You wonder if this is what he meant, when he said he owes you. Maybe this is how he plans on paying you back, and you’re not sure why you suddenly hate the idea.

You quickly change the conversation and move to sit at the table.

“There’s cereal in the cupboard, bread for toast in the pantry.”

He sits opposite you, watches you fill your coffee with sugar before doing the same. “This is good.”

“Not much of a breakfast person?”

“Depends what’s on offer,” he says, stirring his coffee. You briefly wonder if that’s an innuendo, but he continues. “I was hoping for bacon, eggs, sausages - the works, you know? I’m kinda disappointed.”

“Yeah, well, you can shove that disappointment up your ass.”

“Kinky.”

You snort into your coffee. “Dick.”

He shuffles his chair closer to yours. “Seriously, though. No eggs? No bacon?”

“Nope. My breakfast generally consists of coffee, and lots of it.”

“Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, you know?”

“What, you’re some kind of health freak?”

He shrugs, brings his chair even closer to yours. “I do what I need to.”

“The fuck does that mean?”

“Routine, you know? Eat well, work out, get a good night’s sleep - all that boring stuff. It’s supposed to help.”

“Help?”

“Bipolar.” He shrugs.

You frown. “Eat well, work out, get a good night’s sleep … all after a long night dancing for old dudes and their grey pubes?”

He glances at you out of the corner of his eye, looks you up and down. “I don’t believe for a second that you’ve got grey pubes.”

“I wasn’t talking about me, shit head.”

“Well you should have been more specific. You’re the only guy I dance for who I take any notice of, after all.”

You roll your eyes and change the subject again, mostly because you don’t know how to reply to that. “So, uh, what are you gonna do today? Just hang out here?”

“No, I’ve got to get my phone.”

It takes you a few still-sleepy moments to catch up. “Your cell? No way, Ian, you can’t go doing that!”

“Why the fuck not?”

“Because it’s too fucking close to your family’s house. They aren’t exactly under lock and key, but the house is being watched, and all cops in the neighbourhood are on the look out for you.”

He sighs. “What else would you have me do, Mickey? Sit here and watch infomercials all day?”

“Well, yeah.”

He blinks in surprise, then smile softly. “You don’t want me to get caught.”

“I don’t want you to nark on me when you do get caught.”

“You know I wouldn’t do that.”

“Whatever. Look, it’s too easy for you to get caught out there, okay? You were on the local news last night, probably all the newspapers, all over the internet … it’s just too big a risk.”

“I’ll be careful.”

“Not good enough.”

“I can’t just sit here and do nothing all day when I know that text on my phone could help!”

“And I’m not getting my ass handed to me when you get caught and I find out you’ve been lying to me all this time.” You stand up and turn away, trying your fucking best not to touch him in the process.

“Mick.” He grabs your wrist, but doesn’t try to turn you to face him. “I swear to you that I’m being honest.”

You close your eyes. _One. Two. Three. Four. Five._ You turn around.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

You shrug. “Yeah. Okay.”

“But - but _why?_ Why is it okay? Why didn’t you call your superiors while I was passed out and tell them you had me? Why the _fuck_ do you believe me?”

You raise your eyebrows. “I don’t know. Why did you come to me for help?”

He opens his mouth to respond, then promptly closes it. He frowns. “I don’t know.”

“Was it just because I’m a cop? Because you saw me there that night and figured ‘hey, I know that guy, maybe he’ll help me’?”

“No!” He stands up, long fingers pressing into the soft skin of your wrist, and you urge your heartbeat to steady. “No, Mick, I -

He stops when your phone begins to ring. You stare at him, waiting for him to finish, but he just looks away with a sigh and lets go of your wrist. You miss his touch immediately. You pick your phone up from the coffee table and your stomach drops at Angela’s name. You throw a glance at Ian, hoping it’s enough for him to understand, then answer your phone.

“Morning, boss.”

“Hey, you sleep okay?”

You shrug, despite knowing she can’t see you. “I slept.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean.” Background noise interrupts for a moment, but then she’s back. “Listen, I’m just about to pick us up some coffees, then I’m on my way to get you, okay? We’ve got a big day ahead of us.”

You turn your back on Ian. “Oh yeah?”

“Yep. I plan to piss off the technicians and try and get a push on those lab results, and then hit them up about the footprints.”

“Right. Good.”

“Plus the autopsies are being done today, and if we’re lucky we might get some skin under the nails that could help.”

You put the queasiness in your stomach down to the fact that autopsies always weird you out, and quickly decide it has nothing to do with the fact that she’s talking about Ian’s family like the bodies they now are.

“I’ll be there in twenty,” she finally says, and hangs up.

You nod to yourself and lock your phone. When you turn around, Ian’s gone.

\----------

You try not to let your bitterness show, but it’s hard. You’re so fucking angry and confused, and you feel used and betrayed, which just makes the whole thing worse, because even with your asshole of a father dead and buried, you still don’t like to do the whole _feelings_ thing.

“Even with a push, test results won’t be back for a couple of days, at least,” Angela says, hanging up her phone, “but the guys think they have a good idea on the footprint, it’s just …”

You glance at her. “Just what?”

“Whatever happens, only one of those footprints can point to Gallagher. We don’t have a single lead on who he was working with.

“We literally have no lead on the other set?”

“Nothing,” she says. “Mrs. Henderson only saw one person running from the house, and that was Ian. There’s a chance the other set could belong to one of the vics, but I fucking doubt it. They go through the whole damn house.”

“Okay, so what do we do?”

Angela grins. “We keep going. I want to talk to Mrs. Henderson again, see if having a day to think it over has helped her remember anything. While I’m doing that I want you to talk to Emily some more - the kid seems to like you, maybe she’ll open up eventually. Then we start door knocking.” She holds up the address book taken from the Gallaghers’ the day before.

You take it from her and slowly flick through. “Bonavich. Clemonte. Hearst. Lexington. _Windsor?_ Jesus, we really talking royalty here?”

She side eyes you. “How do you know the royal family’s last name?”

“Whatever. I watch TV.”

“You mean you watched the royal wedding?”

You flip her off. “Mandy watched the royal wedding. It’s not my fault she was crashing with me at the time.” Or that Prince Harry is fucking hot.

“Uh-huh.”

She pulls up at Mrs. Henderson’s and climbs out, so all you can do is glare and follow suit.

Mrs. Henderson smiles so brightly when she sees you that you just kind of stare at her, confused.

“Emily’s already asking after you,” she says, and grabs your arm to drag you in. “Well, she’s been drawing Mickey Mouse again, but she did speak this morning!”

“She did?”

“Yes. I asked her if she would like to watch something, and do you know what she said?”

After a moment of silence where Mrs. Henderson clearly expects you to answer, you raise your eyebrows. “Uh, nope.”

 _“Aladdin._ She asked to watch _Aladdin._ I have it on tape from when my grandchildren were kids. It took some digging around to find the old VCR player upstairs, and I had to get one of the men outside to come and set it all up for us, but we got there eventually.”

You smile, and it’s with such genuine fucking relief. “That - that’s really great.”

“Yes. She hasn’t said anything else since, but I’ll take what I can get. I really think your visit yesterday helped.”

“Oh, well, just doing my job.” You turn away from Angela, hoping to avoid her stupid proud smile and keep her from seeing your blush.

“Would you like to see her? I know she’d love to see you.”

“Yeah. That would be great.”

You and Angela follow Mrs. Henderson into the living room, and other than the clothes Emily is wearing and the movie on TV, pretty much everything is exactly the same. She’s still sitting in front of the coffee table, drawing, and clutching your phone in her free hand. You watch her for a moment, because not even you can deny that she’s pretty fucking cute.

“Emily,” Mrs. Henderson says. “Look who’s here to see you.”

She looks up, and a soft smile graces her features. You wave vaguely, somehow not sure how to act around her now that Angela is with you. Thankfully, Angela takes that as her cue.

“Hi, Emily. Remember me? My name’s Angela.”

Emily glances at Angela then goes straight back to her drawing. You can’t help but snort quietly.

Angela scowls at you. “Fine, you do it then.”

You take your seat across from the kid, just like the day before. She doesn’t look at you, but you pick up a crayon of your own, and, without looking up, she quickly slides a piece of paper across to you. You start drawing the magic carpet.

You’re honestly not sure what you’re supposed to do now, though. You got what you could out of Emily yesterday - and, sure, Angela doesn’t know about any of it, but that doesn’t change the fact that the kid isn’t talking. You’re out of questions, she’s got no voice; the entire thing seems superfluous.

So you just say the first thing that comes to mind.

“You like the movie?”

She shrugs, but doesn’t look up. It’s enough for you to be pleased with, but you cock an eyebrow.

“Really? A shrug? This is the greatest Disney movie ever, kid. How can a shrug be your entire review? Did you not see them flying on a magic fucking carpet?”

Mrs. Henderson clears her throat from where she’s standing, watching, and you glance up at her. “Oh, uh, language. Right, sorry.”

Emily giggles. She actually fucking giggles, and you don’t fucking care how big your grin is. You swallow back your pride and take the opportunity.

“Really? You’re laughing at me? Mrs. Henderson told me off and you’re laughing at me?” It only makes her giggle harder, and it hurts you how fucking sad her life is. “Not cool, Emily. I thought we were friends.”

She looks up at you, giant smile on her face, and hands you another picture. You chuckle softly when you see it.

“Yeah? You like Princess Jasmine? She is pretty cool, huh?”

She shrugs again and stands up. You watch patiently as she awkwardly attempts to pull something from her jeans pocket, then smile when she hands the next picture to you. You open it without thought, and frown down at it.

You can’t quite make it out. It’s another stick figure, this time with long yellow hair, right next to some kind of … something. Something grey and box shaped. You have no fucking clue, but when you look up at Emily she’s staring at you with such wide, intense eyes that you immediately know what she’s trying to tell you.

“You drew me another picture,” you say, stating the obvious. She nods. “Is this - is this to go with the picture she drew me yesterday?”

She nods again, almost as vigorously as she had the day before. You swallow back the sick feeling in your mouth that tells you you’re about to get your ass fired, and ask your next question.

“Emily. Was this person at your house, too?”

She nods, slow and sure. Silence follows her admission, and you wait and wait and fucking wait -

“Milkovich.” Angela’s voice is cold. “Outside. Now.”

You give Emily the best smile you can, and stand up. You follow Angela out, knowing she could kick your ass without breaking a sweat, but still trying to come up with your best line of defence. When it occurs to you that your best line of defence is the truth, you shove it away without giving it another thought.

“Explain,” she says, standing in the middle of Mrs. Henderson’s front lawn. Her arms are crossed over her chest, her hip is cocked, and she looks so fucking pissed. You’ve never been more terrified of her, and you’re not fucking afraid to admit it.

You go with as close to honest as you can. “I thought we were putting a lot of faith into one old lady who saw someone run from the scene in the middle of the night, okay? She’s the only reason Gallagher’s even a suspect, and she might be fucking wrong.”

Surprisingly, she nods. “I can’t deny that. Carry on.”

“I just thought it made sense to ask the actual witness what she saw, and since she’s not talking …”

“You asked her to draw it.”

“Yeah.”

She holds out a hand. “Let’s see then.”

You pause. You don’t want to hand them over, but you know you don’t have a choice. You give her the most recent picture, then pull the other one out of your back pocket and hand it over. She frowns at them both, looking from one to the other and back again.

“This gives us fuck all.”

“I know.”

“Neither of them have red hair, though.”

“I know.”

She indicates the newest drawing. “Any idea what this is supposed to be?”

You look at the grey box again and shake your head. “No idea. I’m guessing all these lines on the first guy are tattoos, maybe scars, but I could also be way off. There’s just no way to tell.”

She nods and continues looking. Then she sighs, folds them both back up, and stick them in her own back pocket. “While I appreciate you taking the initiative here, kid, you can’t just keep this kind of thing from me.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Do you? Because this is a big fucking deal, Mickey. Especially if Gallagher doesn’t end up being the perp.”

“Do you really think that’s possible? That Ian might not be the one who did all that?” The slip in name seems to go unnoticed by Angela, but you have to fight off a blush at it.

“I don’t know. The fact that he’s gone AWOL isn’t helping his case.”

“Yeah.”

She shifts on her feet and crosses her arms again. “Listen, kid, I’m gonna have to send you home.”

“What?”

“You kept this from me. I don’t know if it’s going to come in handy at all, but, to be honest, that’s not what I’m concerned about.”

“Then what are you concerned about?”

“You. This entire case - you can’t deny it hits a little too close to home -”

“No it doesn’t.”

“- So I want you to take some time. Just the afternoon. Get your head straight, maybe distance yourself a little, and we’ll sort something out tomorrow. I’m - I’m unofficially suspending you for the rest of the day.”

Your heart drops, but you nod. “Are you going to tell Winters?”

She shrugs. “I dunno. Guess it depends on how the case turns out.”

“So I’m off the case?”

“Shit, Mickey, no.” She begins to pace. “This was really fucking uncool. You get that, right?”

“Yeah, but -”

“No buts about it, asshole. You’re not even a fucking detective yet! You can’t keep things like this from your partner - or your superior.”

You nod. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

Her face stays hard, but you’re proud of yourself. Even now, after years in the force, you still have trouble with figures of authority. Especially the ones who tell you what you can or can’t do, or, in this case, tell you off like you’re a fucking kid. But Angela is different. Just like O’Leary. You respect them both, and if they tell you you’ve done something wrong then you’ve probably done something wrong.

“I’m gonna take you home,” she says. “I’m going to see if I can get anything else out of Emily, then I’m going to take you home. Whether you like it or not.”

“Ouch.”

“Yeah, well …” She drops her arms and shrugs. “Probably won’t last. I kinda like having you around.”

You fight back the grin that wants to burst, because you know you’re safe for now. Angela won’t tell Winters that you kept this evidence from her.

But you’re safe _for now._ Who the fuck knows what will happen to you and your job once they find out about Ian.

\----------

You half expect, half hope that Ian’s waiting for you when you get home, but you’re not at all surprised to see no sign of him. It pisses you off, though. You just had Angela on your ass about something you were doing for him, and he’s not even here. Fuck, he’s probably out looking for his fucking phone.

You can’t exactly blame him, but, shit, if he gets caught, then … you don’t even want to think about what that might mean, and not just for your job. For Ian, for Ian’s life, for Ian and how you still don’t know him nearly as well as you want to.

You shove those thoughts away, quickly change your clothes into something more South-side appropriate, and leave your apartment again. You jump on the El and head south, knowing exactly where to find the burned down Burger King and the abandoned buildings next to it.

The entire neighbourhood feels abandoned. It’s not - there’s a storage unit here, a roofing company there, and a burger joint in between - but it gives off that feel, and you kind of like it. It’s the kind of place you would have spent a shit load of time in as a kid if you’d known about it. Whether you would’ve used it for shooting practice or letting some dude fuck you, it would have been a perfect escape from whatever bullshit was going on at home.

The abandoned buildings Ian talked about sit in a group, each one looking as shitty as the next, and you silently curse him. Not only are there four buildings, but you have no fucking clue which one he hid the phone in. Or if the phone is even here anymore. It’s been hours since he left - for all you know he found the phone right before the police found him.

Stupid fucker, just looking to get himself caught.

You scowl at the mere idea of Ian Gallagher, and at yourself for caring way too fucking much about whether or not he’s okay.

You take a quick look around before pulling up your hood and entering the first building. You stay quiet, light on your feet, taking conscious note of your gun pressing against your ribcage. You don’t know who the fuck you’re likely to run into here - bums, junkies, other criminals hiding from you and your work mates.

You make it up three flights of stairs before a loud crash comes from the building to your right.

“Gotcha,” you mutter to yourself, and head back down the stairs.

You don’t know for sure that it’s Ian, but you know it’s all you’ve got to go on, so you make your way around the courtyard, keeping to the shadows, and slip into the next building. You don’t see Ian until you’re on the roof.

He’s pacing. And smoking. You watch him for a moment while he storms back and forth, running his free hand through his hair, and … talking to himself. You frown, try to make out what he’s saying, but coming up short. With nothing else to do, you step out of the shadows and into his line of sight.

He stops dead. “What are you doing here.”

“Came to get your phone.”

He reaches into his back pocket. “Already done.”

You lose it. “Fuck. Fuck you, man! Do you even know how much I’m putting on the line for you? And you just waltz out of my place like it’s not a fucking thing! Like it doesn’t fucking matter!”

He sneers at you. “Relax, Mickey, it’s not like I ditched you after we’d fucked or anything.”

And that fucking hurts more than you’d like.

“Fuck you,” you say again. “This is my career you’re playing with, Gallagher.”

“And it’s my fucking life! It’s my life that’s been fucked over. Half my family is dead, and I can’t even go to the other half because I’m the main fucking suspect.” He steps closer. “Don’t you see how fucked up that is?”

You don’t close your eyes, but you do count. _One. Two. Three. Four. Five._ You try again.

“Dude, I’m doing everything I can for you -”

“And I fucking appreciate it, Mick, I do, but -”

“But?”

“But I can’t just sit back and do nothing, okay? I know I said my family was a nightmare, that they didn’t approve of half the things I did, but they were still my family, man. And someone killed them.” He takes a few steps closer still. “I can’t sit on my ass and watch infomercials all day while I’m being blamed for doing that to the people who took me in.”

“I get that, Ian, I do.” It was part of the reason you became a cop, after all. “But you’re in so much fucking trouble, and I don’t think you realise the extent of it. I just … I just want to help you, and I can’t fucking do that if you keep taking off to do this alone.”

He huffs. “But why? Why are you helping me?”

“Because I believe you. I told you that last night.”

“Yeah, but …” He pauses, and when he runs a hand through his hair you see his hands are shaking. “Why do you believe me? You don’t know me.”

You shrug. “Instinct.”

“You say that like it’s a question.”

“Christ, man.” You pull out your own smokes, light one up, and take a deep drag. You hold it in for as long as you can before letting the smoke billow out as you talk. “I don’t know why I believe you, okay? It’s not like I know you. It’s not like watching you dance for me twice a week has made us close.”

“Hasn’t it?”

You look at him, at his wide eyes, and you feel nothing but turmoil. “You don’t know me, Ian. You can’t say you dancing for me has made us close, not when you didn’t know my name until twenty-four hours ago.”

“I know. I just … you don’t feel like a stranger to me, Mick. And not just because I dance for you, or because you’re the one fucking customer I’m totally into, but because of the other things, you know?”

“What other things?” Your own hands shake as you bring your cigarette to your lips.

“The other things. Like how you get a little hitch in your breath when I say something particularly dirty, or how you’ll sit and wait hours for me if it’s a busy night, or how you’re voice fucking _trembles_ when I get you close to coming.”

You ignore the way your heart sinks at his _other things_ , all of which are in relation to your dancer-slash-customer relationship with him.

“None of those things make us close -”

“Or how you always arrive early on Tuesdays because you try to visit your brother early Wednesday mornings, how you always ask me how I’m doing as though you actually give a fuck, how you actually listen to me when I tell you. Or there’s how you almost never look me in the eye if it’s been a bad day, how I know what kind of dance you need just by the way you do or don’t look at me, or how you have exactly twelve freckles across your cheekbones and the bridge of your nose.”

“Ian -”

“I don’t know you,” he says. “I don’t fucking know you at all, not properly, and I have literally no idea why the fuck I trusted you yesterday, but I did. I do. I fucking trust you.”

His whole body shakes with his words, and you take a step forward, and another. You keep going until you’re standing right in front of him. “Hey, what’s going on? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” He rubs his free hand over his face. “Really. Just my body’s way of telling me it’s past time for my meds.”

“Your meds? For your bipolar?”

“Yeah. It’s okay, though. I won’t go manic right away. Should have a couple of sane days left in me.” He tries to make it a joke, but you feel genuine concern build up inside you.

“What can I do to help?”

He looks at you for a long minute as he slowly begins to calm. “Nothing.”

“Ian. What can I do to help you?”

He shrugs. “You already are helping me, Mick.”

And there’s so much meaning behind his words, too much fucking meaning, that when he lowers his head to avoid your gaze, you reach up and touch his face, press your fingers to the stubble on his cheek. His eyes glance up to meet yours, and you don’t think, you just act. You lean up and catch his lips in your own. The surprised groan he emits into your mouth shoots white-hot heat through you, and you don’t know what the fuck you’re doing, but you’re doing it and it feels fucking amazing.

Strong arms encircle your waist and pull your close, closer, _so fucking close_ until all you can feel is Ian, against you, around you, inside you. Your lips part as he quickly takes over the kiss, delving his tongue into your mouth and shuffling you backwards until your back hits the wall, but you don’t complain one fucking bit. You wrap your arms around him because it’s what you want, it’s all you’ve wanted since the first time he danced for you.

And it’s so much more, because now you know Ian. You know _Ian._

You kiss him, touch him, curse into his mouth as his hands slip beneath your clothes and against your skin, and you buck into him, unable to help yourself. But he’s hard against you - hard chest, hard thighs, hard cock, and it’s all so good and perfect, even in an abandoned old building, not minutes after screaming at each other.

“Wanna fuck you,” he breathes against you, trailing his lips from your mouth and across your jaw. “Need to be inside you.”

The noise you make is unintelligible and humiliating, but it makes Ian huff against your neck and go for your jeans. You do the same, reaching for his hard cock, palming him through denim, silently in awe at the fucking size of what you’re about to have inside you, but then Ian’s dry hand wraps around you and your mind goes hazy.

Your eyes roll back into your head and your head falls against the brick wall behind you, but all you can get out is a litany of _fuck, Ian, fuck_. You grab at his waist, dig your nails into the smooth skin there, and try to form some kind of actual sentence.

“Fuck.” You blink, look up into his eyes. “Fuck me.”

“Yeah, Mick? Can I?”

“Yeah. Yes. Now. Jesus, Ian.” You push him away so you can turn to face the wall, glancing at him over your shoulder as he undoes his jeans and pulls out his cock. Fuck. You swallow heavily at the sight of it, and a part of you wishes you were at home, in bed, somewhere, anywhere you had the time to let him prep you properly, because _fuck._ You knew he was big, but …

Fuck.

His own dick out, he grabs at your jeans and lowers them over your ass, a low growl falling from his lips. He leans in, nips at the skin of your neck. “Thought about this,” he mutters. “Thought about it a whole fucking lot.”

You press your forehead to the brick in front of you, silently praying that he’s telling the truth. “Lube and condom in my wallet.”

He hurries to get them, and throws your wallet to the side, then it’s a tense waiting game for you as he opens the packet of lube and gets ready.

But then there’s a slicked up finger pushing into you, and you hiss at the pleasure-pain of it, the sting that you really fucking love, reaching back to grip Ian’s hair when he rests his chin against your shoulder.

“Wanna lick you open next time.” He nuzzles his nose against your neck, licks a long stripe over your heated skin, and pushes in another wet finger. You groan at his words; push back against his long fingers. “Gonna take my fucking time and do everything I’ve always wanted to do to you. Next time.”  
  
_“C’mon,_ man.” And it’s nothing but a pathetic fucking _whine,_ the one that Ian matches with hot breath against your neck.

He gets another finger in, and the stretch is hot, burning, so fucking good, that your entire body trembles with it. But it’s not enough, not nearly enough, not when you’ve wanted this guy inside you for too fucking long now, and Ian - god-fucking-bless him - seems to feel the same.

He slides his fingers out, takes the moment to rip open the wrapper condom with his teeth, and uses the rest of the lube to cover himself. And you wait, panting and huffing, still fucking pushing your ass out towards him, getting nothing but air in return.

But then there’s Ian - hard, heavy, hot Ian - large hands gripping and spreading your cheeks as he pushes in slowly, steadily, until he bottoms out, grunting out your name.

“Mickey. Fuck, Mick.”

His head rests between your shoulder blades, and you can feel him shaking behind you. You don’t know if it’s from his lack of meds or what’s happening between the two of you, and it actually fucking concerns you, but then he pulls out and slams back in hard enough to make you lose your breath.

_“Fuck.”_

He starts moving in earnest, holding your hips tightly and pulling you back to him with every forward movement he makes, and it’s filthy and raw and in the middle of an abandoned fucking building in southern Chicago. And it’s, no doubt, the best fucking sex you’ve had in your life. Your hands and forehead press against the rough brick in front of you, and you’re sure you’ll end up with grazes on them from the fucking you’re getting, but Ian’s cock is up your ass, hitting your prostate with every third thrust, so you just don’t give a fuck.

He’s all you can think about as he pistons in and out of you, as you try to keep up, try to meet him thrust for thrust. You don’t think about him dancing for you, you don’t think about his possible murder charges, you don’t think about his med withdrawals. You think about Ian - the soft eyes that begged you to believe him, the way he looked waking up next to you that morning, the feel of him fucking into you and muttering dirty words into your ear.

Your orgasm hits you hard, surprising you both as you come untouched all over the wall in front of you. Ian’s movements stutter, and he groans.

“Did you - did you just -”

All you can do is groan and push back into him. You’ve already come, but you’re not ready for this to be over.

“Fuck, fuck, so fucking hot, Mick,” he says, fucking you faster and harder. You grunt and grip at him everywhere you fucking can without losing your hold on the building, the only thing keeping you up other than Ian, and he latches his mouth onto your neck and bites, coming hard.

\----------

Taking Ian home with you - on the same fucking train at the same fucking time - is a stupid fucking move, but in a thirty-six hour period of stupid moves, what’s one more? It barely even compares to letting him sleep in your apartment the night before … or letting him fuck you half an hour ago.

But the closer the El gets to you apartment - and the further away it gets from the secluded building Ian just fucked you in - the stupider you feel. Your head is clear of lust and the haze that went with it now, and all you can think about is how much fucking trouble this guy is getting you into.

You don’t speak to him when you get off the train - haven’t said much of anything to him since doing your jeans back up and taking his offered cigarette - but he follows you out of the train and to your apartment, and you don’t both trying to stop him.

Upon seeing the road in front of your apartment is clear of Angela’s car, you give him the go ahead and follow him inside your apartment building and up the stairs. Your phone beeps just as you hit the third floor landing, and you’re surprised and nervous to see a message from Angela.

A picture message. She’s sent you a photo of the two drawings Emily did for you, telling you that you better have some kind of theory by tomorrow morning, or else.

Or else what, you don’t know, but you take it to be something positive. She wasn’t telling you to clear out your desk and locker because your ass has been fired, so there’s that.

You grab a beer from the fridge once you’re inside, but refuse to get one for Ian, and you don’t know why. You don’t know why you’re suddenly so fucking furious at him that you kind of want to hit him, or kick him out, or call Angela and tell her everything. That last thought makes your chest ache in an uncomfortable way you don’t want to think about, but that doesn’t change the fact that you’re still fucking angry.

And you don’t know why.

You chug back the beer and head into the living room. Ian’s on the sofa he shared with you the night before, watching you glare at him.

“That was a stupid fucking move, Gallagher,” you say. Projecting your own issues onto him? Perhaps.

He sighs. “Which move is that, Mick?”

“Going to get your fucking phone, shit head. Do you even realise how much trouble you’re going to be in if you get caught?”

“Yeah, I kinda do. I saw the bodies. I know how bad it was.”

“You don’t know shit.”

He stands. “I don’t know what’s got you in this mood, but it’s definitely ruining the post-sex high.”

“Are you fucking kidding me? You’re wanted by the police! If this doesn’t get sorted soon enough, you’ll probably be wanted by the fucking FBI, too. There is no post-sex high, Ian. Fuck. There’s no post-sex anything. I’m a fucking cop and you’re wanted for murder. Jesus Christ, there shouldn’t have even been any sex.”

You quickly look away when his eyes go wide. You don’t know what you’re thinking, what you’re feeling. You’re totally fucked up, and you don’t know if it’s the case or the man in front of you, but you have a feeling it’s a bit of both. And you don’t like it - you don’t like not being able to promise Emily that she’s safe, that she can see her brother again, that you’ve found the people in the pictures she drew you.

But you really don’t like the way your heart is beginning to constrict every fucking time you look at Ian. You don’t like that he knows and remembers small details about you, you don’t like that being in his presence makes you feel good, you don’t like the way you want to hold his hand or brush that one lock of hair away from his face or do whatever the fuck else you can do to make him feel better.

You don’t know. _You don’t know him_.

You keep telling yourself that, but no matter how true it is, it doesn’t change the heavy, unbalanced feeling of falling for him.

“You don’t mean that,” he finally says.

“Why the fuck not? I’m just another customer to you, right?”

“When the fuck did I ever say that?”

He didn’t. That’s the problem.

“Look, Ian, we have fun when I come to the club, and, yeah, there’s no other guy there that I want dancing for me, but … that’s it, you know? I pay you to dance for me, and you dance. That’s it.”

“That’s not it.”

“We don’t know each other,” you say, as clear as you fucking can, because you’re so sick of saying it, of thinking it.

“Bullshit. You can’t do what we do in that room without getting to know each other a little.”

“Says the guy who does what we do in that room with twenty other guys a night.”

“Not the way we do,” he said, eyes flashing with anger.

You scoff. “Yeah, okay. What’s my favourite colour?”

“Blue.”

“Lucky guess.”

He moves to stand right in front of you. “Ask me something, Mick, something about me. Anything at all. I’ll tell you everything you want to know.”

You want to know everything, and you don’t know how to tell him that. Don’t know if you can tell him that, or if you’re entitled to know that. Shit, you still can’t figure out why he trusted you enough to ask for your help, why you trusted him enough to believe him, but you know it can’t just be chemistry.

You shrug, fight leaving you. “I don’t know what you want me to ask, man.”

“Just whatever you want to know.”

You grit your teeth. “Why? Why me?” And you hate how fucking pathetic you sound, but you carry on. “You dance for so many guys, so many fucking guys, but I’m the one you jerk off to when you get home? Or was that just a line to get me to come back? A line you use on all your loyal customers?”

“It wasn’t a line. You’re the only customer I have who leaves any kind of lasting impression.”

You snort. “Sounds like bullshit.”

He gently reaches for your hand. “Yeah, well, it’s not. I might be fucking crazy, but I’m not a liar, okay? Bad karma, remember?”

“Whatever, man. Still doesn’t explain anything.”

“What’s to explain? You’re hot and you smell good and turning you on turns me on, which, in a job like mine, isn’t something that happens all too often after a while. So yeah, I took notice of you, I listened to the little things you’d let me in on, and I made a fucking effort, because I kind of hoped like fuck it wouldn’t stay like that forever.”

You look up at him. “Stay like what?”

“Dancer and customer,” he says with a shrug. “You think I ask the name of all the guys I dance for? You think I do my fucking best to make them come?”

“I dunno.”

“Well, I don’t.”

“Really?”

He kisses you, gently presses his lips against yours in a closed-mouth kiss that you can feel deep in your bones.

“We don’t know each other,” he admits when he pulls away, hot breath ghosting across your face, “but that doesn’t change the fact that I’ve wanted to know you for months now.”

When you literally can’t think of anything to say to that, you kiss him again, hard and needy and desperate. He doesn’t put up a fight when you drag him into your shower.

\----------

“Favourite cartoon?”

“ _The Simpsons_.”

“Favourite take out?”

“Pizza.”

“Favourite ice cream flavour?”

“Boysenberry.”

You snort. “Of course.”

“Huh?”

“Because you like boys so much.”

From where he’s lying, sideways across your bed with his head on your thigh, Ian slaps at your leg. “Dick.”

“Favourite movie?”

“Ever?”

“Yeah.”

“Shit, um … _The Goonies_.”

“Nice.” You pause, trying to think of something not so generic. You’ve been doing this for twenty minutes now, enjoying the post-sex haze Ian seems so fond of, and asking the questions he insists you ask. And so you ask, secretly eager to find out more. “Favourite sibling?”

“Dude, that’s mean.”

“Whatever, everyone in a big family has a favourite sibling.”

“No they don’t.”

“Yes they do.”

“Who’s yours then?”

“Mandy.” You don’t mention that Mandy’s the only one alive who will talk to you, but it feels like something you should mention, something important. Maybe later. You hope there’s a later.

“Fine,” he mutters. “Liam.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. He’s the only one without attitude, which is exactly what I needed while manic.”

You’re silent for a moment, all generic questions gone. “When did it happen?”

“The diagnosis?”

“Yeah.” You reach down and thread your fingers through his hair without thinking about it, and love the way he closes his eyes at your touch.

“Uh, when I was seventeen. I was working hard to make it to West Point, but one day I just … woke up and decided to fuck it all up - got a fake ID, enlisted, stole a helicopter.”

“You stole a helicopter?”

He moves his head against your fingers, trying to get you to touch him more. You gently caress his head. “Well, I tried to. Didn’t work out so well.”

“I can imagine. Then what?”

“Then I took off. Spent some time with my mom - she has bipolar, too, and even though I didn’t know that’s what was going on at the time, being with her just felt right, you know? But then I took too many drugs, screwed around with too many old guys, almost overdosed one too many times.”

“Shit. Really?” Without thinking, you reach your other hand down to touch him wherever you can find skin. Your fingers brush over his bare shoulder.

“Yeah. After that happened Monica took off again, but … I don’t know, that’s what she’s been doing since I was a kid, so it wasn’t exactly surprising, you know? It made me realise how fucked up I was, though, so I went home. Three weeks later I went into my first depressive state.”

“Fuck, man, that’s …”

He rolls onto his stomach and rests his head on your belly. “It’s okay. I’m okay, now. I mean, sometimes my meds fuck up and don’t work so great for my body anymore, but I know the signs, I know how to take care of it.”

“Good.”

“Really, Mick. I’m okay now. I’m … good.”

You cup his cheek in your hand. “You don’t have to convince me, man.”

“Kinda do.” He grins. “I don’t want this ending once the cops realise I’m not their guy.”

“Oh yeah?”

He rubs his nose against you, and it stupidly sends a shot of want through you. Your phone buzzes before he can answer you, though, you and throw out a hand to your bedside table to grab it. It buzzes again. It’s the pictures from Angela - the same picture, just zoomed in. You stare at them, your stomach turning to lead, because even Ian talking about what was going on outside of your bedroom hadn’t been able to ruin your mood, but this stark reminder definitely does.

“What is it?”

You know you shouldn’t do it. Even as you beckon him closer you know it’s a bad idea.

“Emily drew these for me. I asked her to draw the person she saw kill your family, and this is what she drew.”

You show him the pictures, but he stares at them just as blankly as you feel. He slides between pictures, turns the phone this way and that, uses the zoom in feature, then sighs and hands the phone back.

“Sorry, man. The kid is amazing, but her talent doesn’t lie in art.”

“Yeah. It’s just all we’ve got to go on, you know?”

He moves to sit next to you, and rests his head on your shoulder while you both look down at the phone. When he begins to speak again, it’s quiet enough you almost miss it, but dangerous enough to make your entire body tense.

“I want to see her.”

“No.”

“Mickey -”

You pull away, not caring that he almost falls face-first into you. “No, Ian. No fucking way.”

“I know.” He reaches out a hand, but you pull back. “Mickey, I know, okay? I know I can’t see her, I’m not asking to, but I just … I want to. I miss her.”

Your face softens. “I think she misses you, too, man. She totally drew you as the beast from _Beauty and the Beast_ yesterday.”

Ian scowls. “No, she drew me as Prince Adam. There’s a difference.”

You laugh, a full-on belly laugh that would embarrass you if Ian didn’t look so fucking pleased with himself. “This happens often, then? You and Emily play dress-ups, too?”

“Fuck you.” His grin doesn’t leave his face.

“I’d like to see that,” you says. “Maybe you could work it into your dance at the club, you know? Make it a full on strip tease.”

“Not a fucking chance.” He pauses, looks you up and down. “Though I could make an exception for a private dance.”

You narrow your eyes. “Make it Aladdin and you’ve got yourself a deal.”

This time Ian laughs, and you watch him doing it, pretty sure it’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever heard or seen.

Your phone chirps again, and you realise Angela’s probably waiting for you to reply. You quickly check it, and skim over the list she’s given you of things she’s picked up from the picture. Ian reads the text over your shoulder, and you let him.

“Wow. One guy with tattoos and brown hair, one woman with blonde hair … you guys really do have sweet fuck all.”

You look at him, not missing the defeat in his voice. “We’ll figure something out.”

“Pull up the pictures again,” he says, and when you do he slides to one of the woman. “What the fuck is that?”

You shake your head, still not sure what Emily was thinking when she drew some kind of grey box next to the second stick figure. You tilt your head, trying to think, trying to figure out what the lines down one side mean …

“It almost looks like it could be a harmonica,” you say, and Ian tenses next to you. You look at him. “What? What is it?”

“Oh fuck.” His eyes fill with tears, and it hurts a thousand times more now than it did yesterday morning. “Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck.”

“Ian.” You drop your phone and grab his face between your hands. “Ian. Talk to me.”

He looks at you, eyes wide and wet. “Monica. It was Monica.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [My tumblr!](http://wehangout.tumblr.com/)   
>  [The wonderful Ella's tumblr!](http://hubrisandwax.tumblr.com/)


	4. I've got no Soul to Sell

Ian’s out of bed in a flash, and all the good, all the satisfaction, all the fucking happiness you had been feeling while lying naked with him disappears. This huge fucking hole, gaping and black, spreads throughout you, because you know what’s coming, you know what Ian’s going to do, and you know what it could mean.

You follow him. “Ian. Ian, stop.”

He doesn’t stop. He picks up his clothes and stumbles out of the bedroom, trying to dress as he goes. You hurry after him, throwing on some jeans and trying not to catch your dick in your zipper as you do.

“Fuck, Ian.” You grab his arm just as he reaches the living room, and hold tight. “Just wait a fucking minute, would you?”

He pulls away, looks around for his shoes. “I can’t wait, Mick! She’s the fucking answer here, I have to find her.”

“It might not even be her, man. Just sit down and think about this for a few minutes. Just because you had a sudden epiphany doesn’t mean it’s true.”

He finally stops and looks at you. “She called me. Just a couple of days before - before it happened. She called me, asking for money.”

“She did?”

“Yeah.” He sniffs. “Fuck. If I’d just given her the fucking cash -”

“Don’t, man.” You reach out and grasp his hand tightly in yours. You hate this - hate the betrayal in his voice, the hurt in his eyes, and guilt in his words. You can’t stand any of it, and that scares the fuck out of you, but you deal with it because you’ll do whatever the fuck it takes to make him feel even slightly better. “Don’t go blaming yourself for this, okay? Even if you’re right about her - and that’s a pretty huge if - then this is on her. It’s not your fucking fault at all.”

“I have to find her,” he says, voice raw.

“No, you don’t.”

“Mick -”

“Ian, _please.”_ You hold both his wrists in your hands, squeezing tightly. “Don’t do this.”

“If it was her, her and her boyfriend -”

“Then you going after them is going to be dangerous as fuck.” You look up at him, stare right into his fucking eyes, and surge forward until his back is pressed against the wall. “I only just found you, man … don’t take that away from me. Not yet.”

And you know it’s so fucking selfish, so fucking underrated compared to everything else Ian is going through, but you just don’t care. You can’t let him leave, you can’t watch him go, you can’t risk losing him now that you finally have him; that you finally know him.

“Shit, Mickey,” he says, and the raw emotion in his voice causes you to look away.

“I don’t want you to leave,” you whisper, pressing your forehead into his neck, taking note of his thudding pulse.

He wriggles his wrists free from your grasp, brings his hands up to thread his fingers into your hair.

“Mick, I have to -”

“No.” You nuzzle in, press your lips to his neck over and over again, mouthing and kissing, pressing harder and harder until you’re sucking at his neck and he’s moaning your name. “Have to stay, man. Need you to.”

He gasps when you bite at his ear lobe, and you quickly undo his jeans and slip your hand inside. He’s hard and hot against your palm, and it makes your fucking head spin that you’ve got him so fucking needy for you just by kissing and sucking at his neck. So you keep doing it, leaving mark after fucking mark on his throat and collarbone, while your hand wraps around him, strokes from base to tip.

He grunts out a curse and begins to move his hands, through your hair, down your back, trying to pull you closer. You don’t go closer. You know what you need to do, and you know you need to do it soon, but first you need to make Ian feel what you’re feeling. You can live without him feeling the same - though holy fuck you don’t want to - but you need him to know what you need from him.

So you pull your hand out of his pants, and slowly lick at your palm. And you don’t look away for a second. You hold his gaze as you lick wetly at your hand, grow bold as fuck as he whimpers in front of you, and stare at him - watch him closely as you lower your hand, jerk his cock in your spit-soaked grasp.

And he stares back, gasping heavy breaths down at you, thrusting up into your hand, staring at you with the kind of intensity you’ve never fucking seen before in your life, and all you can do is stare right back and keep on going, terrified that looking away will be the end of you. If you look away, the entire thing - the last two days, the sex with Ian, _knowing_ Ian - will overwhelm you and your wrist will stutter in its movements and Ian will leave.

“Close, Mick,” he whispers, and drags his blunt nails down your back. You arch into his touch, wanting him on you, in you, around you. _Wanting_ him. Wanting nothing but him, doing this for him. Needing to do this, do everything, for him. So he knows and understands why you need him to stick around.

You reach your other hand up, shove two fingers into his mouth, and demand, “Suck.”

He looks at you with hooded eyes, sucks at your fingers so fucking eagerly. Your cock twitches in your jeans. You squeeze his dick, pull your slick fingers out before you begin to remember that tongue on your dick, and slide them between his ass cheeks and press against his hole.

He comes quickly and hotly against into your hand, saying your name over and over again and he pulls you close, rests his forehead on yours, trembles against you.

You ease him through it, whisper words with far too much meaning behind them. Once he’s finished, you pull your hand out, retain eye contact, and slowly lick your hand clean.

“Shit,” he whispers.

You lick your dry lips. “Stay here.”

“Mickey -”

“I will figure this out. It’s my job, and I will do it. But I need to you stay here, Ian.”

He’s silent for a long moment, but finally, “Okay.”

You look at him as best you can with your foreheads pressed together. “Promise me, Ian.”

“I promise.”

\----------

The text you sent Angela simply read _need to talk ASAP_.

She had told you she would be at _Aces_ in twenty minutes and that she had news. You don’t know what her news is; can’t really bring yourself to care right now. Even if it’s something that will clear Ian’s name, all you can concentrate on is Ian’s face when he figured out his mother was a part of all this.

You don’t know for certain that she is, but he seems so fucking sure - so sure and hurt and angry - that you believe him. But of course you fucking believe him. You’re a cop who’s supposed to actually investigate cases, but if Ian says innocent, then Ian’s innocent; if Ian says it’s his mother, then it’s his mother; if Ian says he’s wanted to know you for months, then he’s wanted to know you for fucking months.

Instinct and sentiment have fucked with your judgement on this case, and there’s not a damn thing you can do about it.

Truth is, though, you don’t fucking doubt his innocence for a second.

You pick at the empty sugar packet in front of you, tearing it into tiny pieces and dropping them on the table while you wait for Angela to arrive. You’re nervous - fucking terrified, really - but this is your only option, and you just have to trust that Angela trusts you.

When she walks through the front doors, your sit up straight, whole body tense.

“Milkovich,” she says, sitting opposite you in the booth. You look up at the person you’ve come to respect more than anyone in this fucking world and realise that whatever respect she’s gained for you over the last few months is about to become obsolete.

“Thanks for coming.”

“Was going to call you anyway,” she says. “Got some stuff to go over.”

You don’t know if it’s stuff about the case, or stuff about your job, but you push in, knowing you have to get this out before you lose your nerve.

“Can I go first?”

“Shoot.”

“I, uh, I think I figured out the picture. The drawing, you know?”

She smiles that private, proud smile she has for you, and you feel sick to your stomach. “Let’s hear it, then, Sherlock.”

“Monica Gallagher.”

“Monica Gallagher? How’d you come up with that one?”

Your phone is on the table next to you. You grab it and pull up the very images she sent you hours ago. You point to the grey box next to the blonde stick figure, trying not to think about Ian’s face when he figured it out.

“It’s a harmonica.”

She narrows her eyes at the picture, nodding slowly. “So it is.”

“Monica Gallagher, and whoever this guys is -” You point to the other picture, the first one Emily drew you, “- are the ones who are responsible for the deaths at the Gallagher house.”

“What about Ian Gallagher?”

“He’s innocent.”

She sits back in her seat and waves away the waitress who comes to take her order. “What makes you think that?”

“I asked Emily if she saw who did it. She said it wasn’t Ian.”

“Oh, _she said_ , did she?”

You keep your eye roll at bay. “I asked her, okay? I asked her if she saw who did it. She nodded. I asked her if it was Ian and she went fucking _ballistic_ shaking her head no.”

Angela sighs. “This is the unspoken testimonial of a five-year-old girl who worships her older brother.”

“Yeah, and you really think she’d worship him if she saw him kill the rest of her family?”

“I suppose you’ve got a point there.”

“Too fucking right I do.”

She’s silent for a few minutes. You continue playing with the sugar packet.

“Okay. I get how you come up with your Monica Gallagher theory, and it’s a damn good theory -”

“It’s not a fucking theory. She’s the one.”

“That!” She points triumphantly at you. “That is what I don’t get. You’re adamant Ian Gallagher is innocent. So adamant that you asked his five-year-old sister if he did it, and believed her when she said no.”

“Innocent until proven guilty, right?”

“In the eyes of the law, maybe, but you and I have got a job to do.”

You look away. You knew wouldn’t get away with not being completely honest, so you bite the fucking bullet and do it.

“It wasn’t him.”

“How do you know?”

You look at her, trust that she trusts you. “Because he told me.”

She sucks in a breath and her eyes go hard. “Start taking. Now.”

“You know he works in _Boystown._ You know I’m gay. It’s just a huge fucking coincidence that I’ve paid him to dance for me before. A lot.”

“How much is a lot?”

You swallow. “A lot.”

“Fuck, Mickey. You knew? When I showed you the picture of him at the house you knew who he was?”

“Not exactly! I mean, I’m one of his regulars, but I didn’t even know his name until our briefing with Winters.”

“Jesus, kid.” She’s shaking her head at you. You’re not sure she’ll ever stop. “Fuck. I don’t even know what to say to you right now.”

“I know. I know you’re angry -”

“Angry doesn’t even begin to cover it,” she says, and her tone is the quiet, soft one she uses when she’s really fucking furious. You’ve only seen her like this twice before, and it kills you that it’s directed at you this time. “I want to know everything. Now.”

You tell her. You tell her about Ian finding you on your coffee run the morning of the murders; you tell her how he broke into your home; how he took off again the following morning. You tell her that he told you he’s innocent, that he has a text on his phone to prove it, that you fucking believe him. You tell her almost everything, and she doesn’t interrupt once.

She only speaks once you’ve been silent for a few minutes. She leaves you clearly finished and stewing in your seat.

“You fucking him?”

“What?”

“I can’t think of any other reason you would just outright believe him like that. You didn’t even know his name until that morning, but you believed him the second he told you he didn’t do it.”

It wasn’t quite that quick, but you don’t mention that.

“It wasn’t like that. Jesus.”

“So you want to fuck him.”

You glare. “It’s not all about sex, you know?”

“Then fucking explain yourself to me, because I cannot for the fucking life of me figure out why you never came to me with any of this.”

“Look, I - I didn’t know what to do with it, okay? I believed him. I believed him that first morning, and I’ve believed him every moment since.” You pause to take a few solid breaths, needing something stronger than the cold coffee in front of you to calm your racing heart. “I didn’t tell you because it sounds like bullshit, okay? I’m not a detective. I’m just another fucking cop who thinks they might be able to make it in the big leagues, but even I know that my gut isn’t enough to go on.”

“And yet that’s exactly what you’ve done. You’ve gone with your gut, your instinct, and believed every damn word this kid told you.”

Your hands shake as you run your fingers through your hair, thoughts and memories rushing around inside your brain. You don’t want to think about it, never wanted to give it much thought, but it is what it is.

“He’s just like me,” you say, and your lip fucking trembles with the words you hadn’t given much thought to. “All those years ago I walked in on something pretty fucking close to what he did, but instead of making me the prime suspect, O’Leary took a chance on me.”

“So this is some kind of misguided gratitude?”

“No. It’s … he deserves someone on his side, okay? And the fact that I knew him, that I’ve been where he’s been, it all just - it makes me believe him.

Angela sighs. “You’ve got a good heart, Mickey, but don’t you see how fucking insane this it?”

You arch both eyebrows. “Sure, but now do you see why I didn’t tell you?”

“There’s no turning this around, Milkovich. My reaction, whatever it might be, is not up for question here. Your loyalty, on the other hand …”

It’s one of those moments, those _I’m-not-angry-I’m-just-disappointed_ moments that you never received growing up. Coming from Angela it’s fucking painful.

“Look, I’m really sorry, okay? I know what I did was wrong, I know I’ve probably ruined my career; I know I fucking betrayed your trust.”

“Yet here you are, telling me everything.”

Guilt overflows, and the words spill out. “I need your help.”

“Because _Gallagher_ thinks his mother did it, right? He was the one who figured that out?”

You bite your lip before speaking. “He thinks she was involved, at least, and it’s too fucking dangerous for him to try and face her himself.”

Angela grabs your phone, pulls up the pictures Emily drew, and stares at them silently. You’re not sure she’s really seeing it, though. She’s got that look on her face - the one she gets where her brain goes into overtime and you can almost see the gears turning. You grab a full packet of sugar to fiddle with. Finally, she nods.

“It does look like a harmonica.”

“Yeah.”

“And this other picture, the guy, doesn’t look a thing like the photos we’ve seen of Ian.”

“Nope.”

She sits back, crosses her arms over her chest. “I got some news from forensics today.”

“Oh yeah?”

“They found another footprint.”

“Another - you mean, other than the two we originally saw?”

“Yeah. It was only a partial, barely any blood on it, but …” She pauses and gives you a look you don’t understand. “It was a woman’s size seven.”

“A woman’s …” You head feels light-headed, but you’re not sure why. “It’s not Lucy Gallagher’s?”

“Doesn’t fit in size.”

“So there was a woman there.”

“There was a woman there.”

You grip the sugar packet so tightly between your two hands that it rips, sugar spilling everywhere. You hurry to scoop it up. “Fuck.”

“Smooth.” She’s grinning when you look up at her.

“Fuck off.”

She waits for you to clean the sugar before talking again.

“I’m pissed, Mickey. I’m seriously fucking furious with you.”

“Yeah. I know.”

“And I’m not saying I’m on the Ian-Gallagher-is-innocent train.”

“Right.”

“But it seems like you might be onto something.”

Your heart pounds quickly in your chest. “You really think so?”

“Maybe. If nothing else, Monica Gallagher is the only lead we’ve really got.”

“So you’ll help me? Help … us?”

She narrows her eyes. “Where’s Gallagher now?”

“Ian? My place.”

“Shit, kid, you’ve got it bad, huh?”

“Fuck off,” you say again.

“I’m not kidding. Do you even realise what you put on the line by coming to me with this? By being so fucking honest with me?”

“It’s nothing.” You shrug. “I mean, yeah, it’s a big deal, but I figured I could trust you.”

“Bullshit. You needed my help - _Ian_ needed my help. You fucking narked on yourself to try and help this guy out, Mick. I hope he’s worth it.”

You say nothing. You don’t know if you can face thinking about that right now, because she’s fucking right and it’s done. There’s nothing you can do about it now. Angela can’t keep this one from Winters, especially if it doesn’t pan out. What you’ve done is forever, and you keep thinking to yourself, in that quiet place inside that you don’t like to look at, that if something else _forever_ comes out of this, then it might just be worth it.

But you don’t know. You don’t know what’s going to happen, don’t know what Ian feels. He’s said some stuff - things that make your knees weak, that make your heart stutter, that make your entire fucking body quiver in his hands - but you don’t know, because his family is dead and that’s much more important.

\----------

Your apartment feels different when you get there. It’s just like when you walked in the day before and knew you weren’t alone, only this time everything about Ian’s presence is gone. Sure, your bed is still a tangled mess of sex, his towel from the shower is still lying on the living room floor, and you think those might be his boxers you see tucked beneath the couch.

But Ian is gone.

Your heart clenches at the emptiness surrounding of you, and despite what you know, what you can see real fucking clearly, you refuse to believe it. You storm through every room looking for him, even calling his name, just in case, but he’s not there. And it fucking hurts. He _promised_ you.

“Mickey.”

Angela’s voice calls from the living room. You look away from the bed he fucked you on only hours before.

“Look, I know you don’t want to hear it,” she says, “but maybe you gave this guy a little too much trust -”

“Shut up.”

“Listen, kid -”

“He hasn’t taken off on me!” Her eyes widen at your volume, and you take a moment to calm down, to get yourself together. You can’t go off on Angela like that. You especially can’t go off on her like that over _Ian._ You sigh. “He hasn’t, okay? This - this isn’t because he was playing me.”

She stays silent, and you take another look around for anything that might be even the slightest bit out of place, but it’s hard when everything _feels_ out of place. Without Ian there, nothing feels right, and it makes you fucking sick. You make yourself fucking sick. You don’t for a second think he’s taken off like Angela does, but you know he’s gone and you know it hurts.

And you know you must be in too fucking deep for it to hurt his much already.

“Huh,” Angela says. “Maybe you were right.”

You look up. She’s pointing to a folded piece of paper you previously missed. It’s on the table with all your paperwork, but with your name scrawled across it. You hurry to pick it up. Angela reads over your shoulder.

_Mick,_

_Monica called. They have Emily. I have to go._

And then, looking like it was sloppily added at the last second, as a fucking afterthought, _I’m sorry_.

You clench your fist around the paper, too overwhelmed to know where to begin. Angela begins for you.

“You think it’s true?”

“Yes.”

“Not that they called,” she elaborates. “Do you think they really have Emily?”

You close your eyes. _One. Two. Three. Four. Five._ Everything becomes a little less overwhelming.

“I’m not sure. The threat alone would have been enough to get Ian wherever they want him.”

“Why would they want him anywhere?” she asks, and it feels like one of those times where she already knows the answer but wants to help you work your way through it.

You frown. “They need to make sure they’ll get away with what happened, so they’re blackmailing him to take the blame? Or maybe they just want more cash? Shit, I don’t know.”

“What about Emily?”

Your heart hurts at the thought of that little girl being in danger. “There’s no one watching Mrs. Henderson’s anymore?”

“Not since this morning.” She scowls. “Fucking funds, you know?”

“If Emily’s with them, then I’d say Mrs. Henderson is out of commission.”

“Okay. Let’s go.”

“Go where?”

She shrugs, eyes wild. “I don’t know. We’ll figure that out on the way. You can drive while I call in an immediate background check on Monica Gallagher, and get some backup to meet us at Mrs. Henderson’s place.”

You take the keys she hands you and try not to fucking sprint down to her car.

\----------

You’re surprisingly calm. Your hands are sweating bullets, and you can’t keep them still as you grip and release the steering wheel, but your head is focused and ready to go. You put it down to your training, because the idea of Ian being with the people who killed his family is enough to make your heart ache, but you somehow manage to keep it together.

Angela hangs up her phone. “Monica Gallagher - multiple charges of possession, two counts of GTA, one B and E, and even a couple of indecent exposures.”

“Model citizen.”

“It’s also on her file that she’s bipolar, so genetics, you know?” She sighs. “It’s got to be about money, right? All of it - hitting the Gallaghers like she did, texting Ian for cash - she’s got to either owe a shit-ton of people a shit-ton of money, or she needs her next hit.”

You glance at her as you speed down the highway. “Meth?”

“Usually is. I think I know who our second perp is, too. Monica’s currently wanted for questioning in relation to a B and E at a pharmacy on the South side; security cameras caught her on tape with this guy.”

You take in the picture on her phone as best you can - Walter Smith, brown hair, covered in tattoos. Just like Emily had drawn.

“I mean, it’s no guarantee, but who else could it be? The only other person on file with her is Frank Gallagher, but according to whoever questioned him, he’s got a solid alibi.”

“It could be this guy. He’s got the tats.”

“But what if we get there and find out it actually is Ian? Not this guy or Monica?” she asks. You scowl but don’t look at her. She continues. “Mickey, I don’t want to ruin whatever you obviously have with this kid, but there’s a reason he’s our prime suspect.”

“Yeah. Because his fucking mother texted him from his old man’s phone, telling him to get there so he could take the fucking fall.”

You assume. You don’t know how the text actually came about, but you believe in it. Angela says nothing, and you’re glad for it. You haven’t seen the text Ian told you about, so you can’t even tell Angela what it says verbatim. You believe it exists, but fuck, all you have to go on is what Ian told you. You can’t verify any of it.

So you drive. You drive and you say nothing. You concentrate on the dark road ahead.

When you pull off the highway and into the North side, Angela pulls out her gun and checks the chamber.

“We might have a hostage situation,” she continues.

“No shit. They said they’ve got Emily.”

“I was talking about Ian.”

Your blood runs cold. “Two minutes ago you were warning me Ian might still be responsible for all of this.”

“Just trying to prepare you. I need to know you’ll put your feelings for Ian aside and do your job properly.”

You haven’t put your feelings for Ian aside and done your job properly in days, but you don’t mention that. If Ian is in trouble, then you’ll do your fucking job and save his ass.

Angela points to your left. “Pull up over here.”

You kill the lights and slowly pull over to the side of the road. You’re half a block away.

“Follow my lead,” Angela says.

You roll your eyes. “I always do.”

You stick to the shadows as you make your way down the street, guns drawn, at the ready. There doesn’t seem to be any kind of disturbance at Mrs. Henderson’s when you get closer, but you don’t know what’s happened inside. Just like you didn’t know what happened inside the Gallagher’s place two nights ago.

You push away the thought of Ian being anything other than alive. You just refuse to fucking consider it.

You follow Angela over to Mrs. Henderson’s house, your heart fucking racing. You can’t see anything, though. The curtains are pulled, there’s no indication of anything happening inside, and everything’s so fucking quiet you’re concerned you might be breathing too loud.

“What do you think?” Angela whispers.

“No fucking clue.”

She frowns for a long moment, thinking hard. You wait and watch, trying to even out your breathing, hoping for any kind of sign that there’s something inside. Nothing comes for over three excruciatingly long minutes.

Angela looks up at you, finally speaking. “Fucking idiots always revisit the scene of the crime.”

“You think -”

A single gunshot.

You see Angela pale, and you hear her strangled _Mickey,_ but there’s a rushing in your ears, and all you can smell and taste and feel is utter fucking fear.

You take off for the Gallagher house because you just fucking know that’s where the shot came from, and you don’t stop to think. Where Ian is concerned, you never stop to think. You run across the road and for the front door, not doing your job properly and not giving a shit because it’s taking you too fucking long tog et there. Your breath comes in gasps, head already pounding at the possibility of whatever sight you could be faced with inside, but you push forward.

The front door is unlocked when you grasp and turn the handle, and you hurry in, gun held at the ready in front of you, finger on the trigger, because if you see Ian’s body on the ground in front of you, you don’t think you’re going to be able to stop yourself.

What you see is the last thing you expect.

The body on the floor is not Ian. You can only assume it’s Monica Gallagher, but you genuinely don’t know and you don’t have time to find out. What you do know, what you can see, is that she’s dead. There’s a perfect bloody hole in her head, probably from the shot you heard just before storming into the house.

That’s not what makes you pause, though; behind the woman’s body is Walter Smith, hands in the air, lip bloody and eyes wild as rage radiates from his body. In front of the body is Ian, slowly getting to his feet. In Ian’s hand is a gun.

You pause, and every piece of training leaves you. You lower your gun.

“Ian.”

He doesn’t move. He stands over his mother’s body, towers over Walter, and aims the gun directly at Walter’s head. You try again.

“Ian,” you say again, voice surprisingly firm given the situation.

He doesn’t lower the gun, but his gaze flits towards you, then straight back to Walter.

“Go home, Mick,” he says, his own voice hoarse.

“I can’t do that.”

He grits his teeth. “I don’t want you to see this.”

“Trust me, man, I’ve seen much worse.”

He says nothing, his only movement his body heaving with harsh breaths. You take one step into the living room.

“Ian. Give me the gun.”

“Can’t.”

“Yes you can.”

“Nope.” He sniffs and shakes his head. “Can’t, Mick. He - he killed …”

“I know, man. But you need to give me the gun, okay? You need to let me take care of this.”

“Go home, Mickey.”

“Ian, I’m not going anywhere without you.”

He sniffs again, rolls his shoulder up to wipe away a few tears that have fallen, and it breaks your fucking heart.

“He killed her,” he says, volume increasing with every word. “He fucking killed her!”

For the first time since your arrival, Walter decides to speak up.

“She fucking deserved it. The stupid bitch wouldn’t stop running her mouth off to you, telling you what I did -”

“Fuck you!” Ian yells, waving the gun in Walter’s face. You take another step closer. “You fucking piece of shit. You don’t get to just _kill_ people because they don’t do what you want.”

“Ian … _please.”_

He swallows hard and looks toward you. “He killed her.”

“I know.”

“He killed all of them.” And there’s such fucking heartbreak in Ian’s voice that your throat closes up with a heavy lump. His eyes flash with anger as he continues. “And all for a little bit of money. That’s all this was about. They wanted money to score their next high, but when Dad pulled a gun to try and protect his family, this fucking meth head tore them up.”

Walter spits at Ian’s feet. “Fuck you. They deserved it.”

“Nobody deserves that.”

Your hands shake, but you hold one out anyway. “Ian, come on, man. Just come with me.”

“No.”

“Ian.”

He cocks the gun. You step forward again.

“I can’t let him get away with this, Mickey. I just can’t.”

“He’s not getting away with anything, okay? He’s not. I know what he’s done, my bosses know what he’s done; he’s going to prison for a fucking long time.”

Ian shakes his head. “It’s not enough. He killed my family.”

“Yeah, _he_ killed your family, not you. And the entire fucking force knows it now. You’re not a killer. Don’t do this, Ian.”

“I have to,” he whispers.

“No, you don’t. I know what it’s like to kill someone out of revenge,” you tell him, officially opening up about the worst moment of your life to someone other than the court-mandated therapist. “I don’t want that for you, Ian. It’ll never leave you.”

He blinks quickly, his breathing shaky. “Doesn’t matter. I need to do this.”

“What you _need_ to do is be here for Emily. She needs you now more than ever, right? You’re all the family she’s got left. She needs you.” You try to swallow. “Ian, I need you.”

His lip trembles and he drags his gaze away from Walter to look at you. You keep going.

“I only just found you,” you tell him, just like you did a few hours ago. “Don’t take that away from me, Ian. Not yet.”

Ian sniffs again, and it quickly turns into a full-blown sob. He looks at you, eyes wet and wide, and you nod slowly. He lowers the gun, drops it to the ground and uses his free hand to wipe at his face. You sigh, relief flooding through you at how fucking close that was. Ian’s innocence over the deaths of his family has been proven with Walter’s words, but the last thing he needs now is any kind of trial regarding what he might or might not have done to Walter.

You make a move to walk to him, but everything happens so fucking quickly; you barely see Walter move. A gun goes off. The gun that’s not in Ian’s hands anymore. A sharp, sudden pain pierces your stomach, makes your breath hitch in your chest, and the world tilts.

Another shot rings out, then silence.

You blink a few times, trying to get your bearings. Walter falls to the ground in front of you, but all you can see is Ian - Ian staring at you with shocked eyes, Ian rushing towards you as your knees give out, Ian moving his mouth as he hovers over you, but all you hear is the rushing in your ears …

\----------

Everything’s fuzzy when you wake up. Your mouth is dry, your head is foggy, and there’s an indescribable pain in your stomach that you don’t even want to think about. It shoots through your entire body when you attempt to move slightly, and you groan, groggy.

Too much red is suddenly hovering over you.

Ian.

He’s talking, words clearly rushing out of his mouth as his worried eyes stare down at you, but you still can’t hear him. Something grabs you on your other side, but your eyes close before you see who it is.

When you open them again, Angela’s leaning over you.

“Thought I told you to put your feelings aside and do your fucking job properly?” she says, eyebrow cocked.

“Fuck you,” you attempt, but it’s barely more than a rasp.

“Mick?”

You close your eyes. _Ian._

A hand brushes hair away from your face and you lean into it, knowing it’s him, knowing he’s okay, knowing he’s there. And the rush of feelings that gives you is crushing, devastating, so fucking beautiful. When you look up at him, he’s staring down at you, face etched with concern.

“Here,” he says. “Have some water.”

You sip out of the straw he offers you, then choke when you take too much. Ian fusses over you - pulls up your sheets, fluffs your pillow, smooths your hair back - and you want to bat him away, tell him to fuck off, but you just don’t have it in you.

“W’happened?” you mutter. You direct your question at Angela, but when Ian grasps your hand in his, you squeeze tight.

“You’re a fucking idiot who lowered his gun,” she says. She nods at Ian. “At least that’s what this guy tells me. I couldn’t see you from my vantage point in the family room, so I can’t go on record stating that, but I swear to God, Mickey, you scare me like that again and I’ll kill you myself.”

You nod, pretty sure she’s not lying. “Yeah. Okay.”

“Then, after confessing to all his sins and watching Ian lower his gun, Walter went for it. He took Ian’s moment of vulnerability as the opportunity it was, and shot you.”

“I guess that’s why I feel like shit, huh?” You look at Ian and give him your best smirk, considering your condition. “You really got me shot?”

His eyes widen, but Angela continues before he can say anything.

“I wouldn’t take it out on him too hard,” she says. “He hasn’t left your side in the hours since, and it’s been -” she checks her watch “- five hours.”

You look at him, and the look in his eyes is so fucking _real_ \- devotion, fondness, adoration - that you have to look away for a moment. But only for a moment. You look back almost right away, wanting to say really stupid shit that you will forever blame on whatever drugs they’ve got you on.

You open your mouth to do so just as the door to your hospital room bursts open.

“Ian?”

Ian doesn’t take his gaze off you until his sister wraps him in a hug and refuses to let go for longer than you would like. Really, it’s less than a minute, but you already miss the feel of his hand in yours.

“I’m fine - Fiona, I’m fine.” He finally manages to get away, quickly moving to stand next to your bed again.

“Okay,” Fiona says. “Okay, but Jesus, Ian, don’t fucking scare me like that again!” She shoves at his shoulder.

“I don’t plan on it. But, Fi, listen. Monica’s dead.”

“I - I know …” She shakes her head, blinking quickly. “I was so fucking worried about you, Ian. Have been ever since a couple of fucking cops turned up yesterday, and then to find out you’re at the fucking hospital? Jesus, kid.”

Ian grips your arm, lets Fiona’s subject change go. “You didn’t need to worry. Mickey had my back.”

Fiona seems to realise she and Ian aren’t the only two people in the room. Her face pales when she sees you, eyes raking over your upper half and the bloody bandage on your stomach.

“Shit. You got shot?”

You try and shrug it off, but it fucking hurts. “Just doing my job.”

Ian snorts. “If getting shot is part of your job then I think you should find a new line of work.”

Fiona ignores that and looks between you and Angela. “Shit, I - I don’t know what happened tonight, but … thank you. Thank you both so much. Ian would be - I don’t even want to think about what might have happened had you not turned up.”

You look at Ian, but he won’t meet your gaze. You reach out blindly for his hand and hold on real fucking tight once you have it.

“As Detective Milkovich said, it’s all part of our job,” Angela says, throwing her most winning smile at Fiona. Fiona smiles back, looking somewhat dazed.

“Yeah, but, um, the guy I talked to in the hall said Ian’s name had been cleared, too, so -“ she shrugs “- uh, thank you just doesn’t seem like enough. Not for this.”

Angela cocks her eyebrows. “Well, if you insist … I wouldn’t say no to a date.”

“Oh. Well, okay.” Fiona blushes and heads for the door. “I mean, maybe we could start with coffee? If you’re free now? There’s a place just down the road that’s really amazing.”

Despite the fact that her partner, her charge, just got shot in the gut, Angela continues to smile that fucking smile she has and follows Fiona out of the room. You roll your eyes at her, not at all surprised. When you turn back to Ian, he still won’t meet your gaze.

You stay silent for a few moments, thinking over the last forty-eight hours. Finally, you let go of his hand and rub your fingers against your lip, ignoring the pain the movement gives you.

“You can go, if you want.”

“Huh?” He looks at you and you sigh.

“Look, Ian, if this is some kind of guilt thing, then you have nothing to feel guilty for. It’s not your fault I got shot, okay? You don’t owe me anything, so don’t feel like you have to stick around because of it.”

Ian snorts. “Shut the fuck up.”

“Ian -”

He kisses you, soft but firm, and it’s the best fucking thing you’ve felt in so damn long, since the case began, since falling for Ian, since getting shot, that you grunt out something far too close to a sob against his lips. He pulls back. He’s still holding your hand, and his other reaches up to press against your cheek.

“Mandy’s on her way.”

“Don’t care.”

“Mick -”

“Kiss me again.”

He chuckles. “Yeah. Okay.”

\----------

Ian kisses you until you just can’t kiss anymore. Until your breath becomes short and the pain gets to be too much. He calls in a nurse, who shoots you up with something amazing, and then you’re out like a fucking light.

When you wake up, Ian’s there, squished up on the bed next to you, head on you shoulder. You turn your head to nose at his hair, breathe him in, and you have no fucking clue what’s going to happen to you, to Ian, to your job, but you don’t care too much at that moment.

He fidgets against you, groans and rubs his face into your shoulder. “You awake?” he mutters.

“Yeah.” You voice is groggy again, and Ian moves to get the water, but you stop him with a hand on his thigh. “Stay.”

“Water,” he mumbles, but you shake your head and he snuggles back in.

It’s so fucking lame and sweet and pathetic, but you grin anyway.

“How you feeling?” he asks.

“Fine.”

“You just got shot.”

“Yeah. Like eight hours ago.”

Ian lifts himself up to balance on one elbow and look down at you. “Yeah, okay, tough guy. You think you’re fucking Superman or some shit?”

“I could be.” He grins, but it quickly fades when you continue talking. “I’m sorry about your mom, man.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t want to talk about that, I - I want you to tell me about the things you said at the house?”

“What things?”

Yeah, you look away and play dumb, because your words might have gotten through to Ian, he might have sat at your bedside for five hours while you slept, and he might still be with you now, but … _Ian, I need you_. The memory of those words makes you heart clench in anxious fear.

“The things. About killing someone out of revenge.”

“Oh.” You meet his gaze. “That stuff.”

“Yeah. I mean, I heard the rumours while visiting the family, but …”

“But?”

“It’s true? You killed your dad?”

You admitted this to his brother just the day before, but admitting it to Ian is a hell of a lot bigger. “Well … yeah.”

He nods slowly, looks away. “I don’t know what happened, but I know you. I know you don’t think so, but I know you, Mick. I know you wouldn’t have done that unless you really needed to.”

“I guess you don’t know me that well then,” you tell him, voice bitter. “My dad was a piece of shit, and I’d been wanting to do what I did for years.”

“I guess that means you really needed to, then.”

You look at him, at his judgement-free gaze, and words fall from your mouth before you can stop them.

“He just - he deserved it. Even before I got home that day, he fucking deserved someone to take him out, and I’m not the only one who thought so.” You look away and shake your head. “The things he did - to my mom, to Mandy … man, he would have killed me if he found out I was gay. That’s not an exaggeration, either. He would’ve taken me out himself, and he would’ve made it hurt.”

“What happened?” Ian asks, hand stroking your arm. “That day you got home? What happened?”

“Nothing.” You shake your head, frustrated at the tears that threaten. “Nothing fucking happened, but he was drunk and angry and … they think he might have been using, too, like Walter, but I said no when they asked if I wanted the details of the autopsy; he killed my family - that was all I needed to know.”

“He killed your family, so you killed him. Sounds like a fair trade.”

You look at Ian sharply. “I meant what I said at the house, Ian. It’s not a good feeling. It’s something that stays with you forever. Sure, my dad was the world’s biggest prick who deserves to rot in hell for the life he lived, and I don’t miss him at all, but I don’t feel good about killing him. I feel good that I managed to keep me, Mandy, and Iggy alive, but killing him was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”

“Even though he deserved it?”

“Yeah.”

You leave it at that for the moment, because you just fucking hate this. This is stuff you haven’t given much thought to in years - not since you ended your court-mandated therapy - and you’d fucking planned on keeping it this way. But then this guy comes into your life, asks a simple damn question, and you spill your life story.

Fucker.

“I had to go to therapy after,” you tell him quietly. “They called is PTSD, which is just dumb, really. I mean, I was never in a fucking war or anything -”

“Mick.”

“It’s just hard, okay? Living with that - living with killing someone.”

“And you wanted to keep me from going through that.”

You meet his soft gaze, trying to fight a yawn. “Yeah, man.”

“Is that why you said the other stuff, too?”

This time you know what stuff he’s talking about, but it doesn’t scare you nearly as much. You blink innocently, though.

“What stuff?”

“About needing me? Not wanting to lose me?”

“Yeah.”

“Is that the only reason you said that stuff.”

You sigh and move your hand up to grasp his again. The morphine drip is kicking in again, and your eyes begin to feel heavy. “Na, man.”

“Really?” His entire fucking face beams, and you roll your eyes. “So - so this isn’t ending just because I’m no longer wanted by you and your colleagues?”

“I don’t recall saying anything about not wanting you.”

“Fuck.” He closes his eyes and leans down to rest his cheek against yours. “Fuck, Mick.”

You hum, eyes blinking far too slowly. You don’t want to sleep. You want to stay awake and cuddle with Ian, stay awake and keep talking to Ian, stay away and just be with Ian. Fuck, you don’t care what it is you’re doing, so long as Ian’s there, doing it with you.

“Go to sleep, Mick,” he whispers into your ear. “I’ll still be here when you wake up.”

You let your eyes stay closed.

\----------

He’s still there when you wake up. He’s still there when Mandy arrives. He’s still there the next morning. He’s still there when you’re released later that day, he’s there when you go home, and he’s there when you wake up in the middle of the night in fiery pain because your stitches have torn and you’re bleeding everywhere.

He’s there the next day, washing your back in the shower, rubbing your stiff muscles, bringing you coffee and toast and whatever the fuck else you want.

He’s there until you tell him, only half seriously, that it might be a little soon to be moving in together. He grins sheepishly and kisses you goodbye thoroughly. He’s back six hours later, curled behind you in bed, and you don’t mind one bit.

Three days since you got shot, Ian’s finally given the all clear - no charges, no longer a suspect, not a single crime held against him. And with that he’s free to see Emily. You go with him and it’s weird.

The second Emily lays eyes on Ian, she doesn’t shut up. She talks about Aladdin, she talks about the eggs Mrs. Henderson cooks her for breakfast, she talks about going back to school next week. She climbs into Ian’s lap and shows him every drawing she drew - and the ones you drew - while going into great detail about every single one of them. She nags and nags until Ian starts counting and you’re being dragged to hide beneath the staircase.

It’s amazing and it’s heartbreaking, but you’re so fucking glad they’ve got each other.

“Mickey, Mickey!” she cries, and struggles to get her sweater over her head. “Look what that lady gave me!”

You frown. “What lady?”

“Your friend, the police lady.”

“Angela?”

She finally gets the sweater off. “Yeah, look.” She proudly sticks out her chest and tugs at the bottom of her t-shirt. You don’t know whether to grin or scowl.

“A Mickey Mouse t-shirt.”

“Cool, huh?” And she’s so fucking earnest, so genuinely excited, that you just nod and agree with her.

“Yeah, kid, that’s really cool.”

The door to the closet opens and Ian peeks inside. “Hide and Seek usually works better when you don’t give away your hiding place by talking too loud, you know?”

Emily just laughs and proudly shows off her t-shirt again. When you and Ian leave two hours later, it’s to Emily’s tears and promises to visit again soon. Ian grabs your hand and squeezes tight on the walk back to the train stop.

“You okay?”

He nods, but his eyes are wet. “Yep. I talked to Mrs. Henderson while Emily showed you her doll collection. We agreed that Emily should stay with her.”

“Really?”

He nods again. “It’s for the best, and it’s not forever. I - I need to get my life in order before I can look after her. Mrs. Henderson’s promised not to try and go for any kind of custody. I’m Emily’s legal guardian now, but we agreed that I’d sort a few things out first.”

“What kind of things.”

“Work, school, a place to live. The usual.”

“Well you’ve already got a job,” you say, trying to find the positives.

“Yeah, but …”

“But what?”

He shrugs. “Other than the money, the only thing I’ve liked about my job for a while now is Tuesday and Thursday nights.”

“Is that right?”

“Yeah, and I kind of figured I’d be seeing you more than twice a week now, so there’s really nothing keeping me there. The money’s good, but not having-Emily-stay-with-Mrs-Henderson-forever good.”

“So you’re gonna find another job? Go back to school?”

“Something like that.”

Later, when he’s slowly sucking your cock like he’s got all the fucking time in the world, you can’t help the words that fall from your lips.

“Move in,” you groan, fingers sliding through his hair.

He pulls away with a pop. “Really?”

“I mean, it’ll save you money, right? And if you’re not working at the club then you’ll need all the money you can get. This way you can save some money, work out what you want to do, hang out with me - but, I mean, if you don’t want -”

He cuts your off with a deep kiss. You kiss him back, and when he pulls away you reach up and spread your fingers over his cheek, knowing you’ll never be over the fact that you’re finally allowed to touch him whenever the fuck you want.

**The End.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who has left kudos or commented. Your kind words have had me blushing profusely. I love, love, love that you enjoyed the fic and, all going to plan, will have something to share with you over the Big Bang period.
> 
> [My tumblr!](http://wehungout.tumblr.com/)  
> [Ella's tumblr!](http://byebyemickey.tumblr.com/) She read over this for me and is really fucking wonderful <3

**Author's Note:**

> My [tumblr!](http://wehangout.tumblr.com/)


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